


The Lioness of Valmont

by greysense94



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Intrigue, Romance, The Game Is Afoot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-10-23 01:45:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17674067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greysense94/pseuds/greysense94
Summary: The mighty Orlesian Empire is run by the Grand Game, a dizzying dance of politics, seduction, and intrigue where nobles vie for favor with the Imperial throne. A young member of the ruling Valmont family, Princesse Celene has put her foot in the arena to one day become Empress. However, when the machinations of the Game and the cruelty of her cousin Gaspard begin to turn against her, Celene will have to rely on her wits and her elven love Briala to keep her head above the water.





	1. Chapter 1

At eight o’clock in the morning Briala entered Mademoiselle’s bedchamber like she always did, carrying a tray bearing a pitcher of fresh water and clean linens.

As was expected, the room was still dark, and the sounds of quiet breathing were still coming from the ornate bed in the center of the room. Briala set down her tray and walked over to the thick drapes covering the windows. “Mademoiselle, it’s time to get up!” she announced, pulling on a velvet cord.

Celene Valmont groaned in agony as her curtains flew open, bathing her bedroom in light. The morning always came far too early. “No, Bria,” she moaned, pressing her pillow to her face. “Can’t you give me five more minutes?”

“Not today, I’m afraid.” The elf moved to the other side of the room and opened the next set of drapes. It was a beautiful day; Celene’s room looked out on the palace gardens, and on a day like that you could see all the way down to the lake. “Your parents want to have breakfast with you in the Blue Room.”

Celene sighed and kicked off her silk sheets. She had a splitting headache and her mouth was terribly dry. Anticipating her request, Bria handed her a crystal goblet of lemon water, which she drank greedily. “ _Merci_ ,” she gasped, handing the glass back to her servant. “ _Saint Créateur_ , why do they always want to eat so early? I’m still hungover from last night, Mother’s sure to notice.”

“Oh, it’ll make her happy. You know there’s nothing Madame Clarisse likes more than to criticize,” Briala said, smiling. “How was the ball last night?”

“Long, hot, bad wine.” She smiled and stood up, stretching towards the ceiling. “Nine marriage proposals, though.”

“Nine?” Briala laughed. “That’s a new record, isn’t it?”

“One that doesn’t need to be broken, either.” She winked and stood up from the bed, examining her face in the gold-framed mirror hanging on the opposite wall. Pushing back a strand of stray hair that had fallen out of her chignon, she quickly kissed the elf’s cheek as she walked past carrying her gown from the night before. “What do I need with a husband, after all? I have my Bria, don’t I?”

Briala rolled her eyes, though Celene noticed with pleasure that her ears had flushed. “You shouldn’t talk like that, Celene,” she muttered. “You know very well that I can’t stay with you forever.”

“Oh, bah.” She threw off her nightgown, which Briala swiftly replaced with a new undershirt. Celene pulled her head through and examined how it looked in the mirror, adjusting it so that it fell evenly on her shoulders. “What good is being a member of the Imperial Family if I have to marry whatever halfwit makes the best claim for my hand?”

“Personally, I think it’s about time you royals were made to do a few things,” Briala said, slipping a corset over the dress and beginning to tie it. “How tight today?”

“Very,” Celene said, sucking in her stomach. “Otherwise Mother will think I’m getting fat.” Briala nodded and yanked the stays together, making Celene wince. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bria, I already have too much to do,” she continued, holding in her breath. “Parties, the theatre, hunting, balls, cotillions, talking to nobles, pretending to like nobles, juggling marriage proposals from nobles…” She winced again as Briala yanked again tightly. “ _Par le souffle du Créateur_ , wearing this corset is pain enough already.”

“You know I sympathize with you,” Briala said, finishing with the stays. “I do have to say, however, that in the grand scheme of things ‘having too many parties’ isn’t the worst thing that could happen.”

Celene rolled her eyes as Briala tested her face cream for poison with a small enchanted spoon. “I’m fully aware that most people go through much worse,” she said as the elf began applying her makeup. “But it’s not like these parties are just to have fun. It’s always for the blasted Game. One wrong move and the entire family is shamed in front of the whole empire.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Briala said, setting down the cream and applying rouge to Celene’s cheeks and lips. “At least you always have food.”

“I got your point, Bria,” Celene huffed. “Not too much makeup, I don’t want to look like an actress.”

“Speaking of which,” Briala said, setting down the rouge and wiping her hands on her apron before pointing to the gowns laid out on Celene’s bed. “What color will it be today? Red, and have your mother think you’re a harlot, or blue, and have her think you look tired?”

Celene considered those two options for a moment. “Blue,” she said finally. “At least I actually am tired.” She sighed as Briala picked the gown up. “Maker, she’s a monster.”

“She just wants what’s best for you,” Briala said, pulling the gown up around Celene’s ankles.

“No, she wants what’s best for the family,” Celene said, putting her arms through the blue silk sleeves. “It’s different.”

“In this country? Not really,” Briala said, starting to tie the gown’s laces. “It’s not her fault that your success is also her success.”

“Well, if Duc Prosper is right, my success will be _very_ important to her,” Celene said. “Let’s face it, in her mind we’ve already moved into the Imperial Palace.”

 “Celene,” Briala whispered, face suddenly grave. “Don’t—”

“I know, Bria,” she said, smiling. Briala sighed and clasped a diamond necklace around her neck. “But if I can’t talk about it to you…”

“You can’t talk about it to anyone,” Briala said, stepping in front of her. She put a matching set of diamond earrings in her ears and stepped back to check the symmetry. “Not even me. Here, I should let down your hair.”

Celene shook her head, pulling out a diamond clip that let her hair fall out of its twist in a cascade of gold curls. “This is all I need,” she assured the maid. “I should just put on some perfume and go.”

Briala nodded and picked up the bottle of rosewater Celene liked to wear. Before the princess could protest, the elf had matter-of-factly sprayed some on herself, checking for poison there as well. “Bria!” Celene said. “Stop doing that! I can bring someone else in here to check the perfume!”

“And then everyone would start wondering just why Mademoiselle Celene is so attached to her little elf maid,” Briala said calmly, spritzing her neck with the bottle. “We don’t need anyone asking any questions. I’ve already been working for you for too long as it is – I don’t want to set any more tongues in Val Royeaux wagging.”

“Mmmm,” Celene said, grabbing her arm and pulling her forward. “What’s this about wagging tongues?”

Briala giggled in spite of herself and rolled her eyes. “You’re filthy,” she teased, pretending to pull back. “And I don’t have time for this.”

“Time for what?” Celene asked innocently. She leaned in to kiss her, and this time the elf reciprocated. It was a kiss that smelled strongly of roses, and by the time they split apart a ray of sunlight was falling in through the window.

 “You should get to your breakfast,” Briala said, looking down to hide her flush. “I have work to do, anyways.”

Celene sighed, taking a step back. “I wish I could give you a day off.”

The elf shook her head. “I told you, it would only make things tense among the other servants – besides, I like the work.” She smiled and grasped Celene’s hand. “I have my responsibilities, too, you know.”

There was a loud rap at the door. The two flew apart, Briala immediately busying herself with the laundry. Scowling, Celene grabbed the golden mask lying on her bedside table and tied it to her face. She then relaxed her jaw and assumed an imperious expression. “ _Entrez_.”

Her bedroom doors swung open. She could smell the estate’s steward before she could see him, practically gagging on the stench of musk and pomade. “Mademoiselle Celene,” he said, bowing before her. “I am to escort you to breakfast.”

“ _Merci,_ Gaston,” Celene said, acknowledging him with a slight incline of her head. She had immediately shifted to the stiff language of the court, letting her voice become less expressive and more clipped. “I shall be delighted to enjoy your company this fine morning.”

“It is quite lovely, is it not?” He offered her his arm, which she took as he led her out of the room. Elven servants swung the doors shut behind them. She almost looked back, as she hated having to leave Briala without saying a proper goodbye. Still, she was able to stop herself in time. No one could know about her relationship, not even the family steward.  Gaston was speaking again, and she quickly focused on what he was saying. “It seems that spring has finally returned to Val Royeaux,” he said. “The capital is coming back to life once more.”

They were walking down a beautiful hallway lined with marble walls and floor-length mirrors. The light made Celene’s head hurt. “Val Royeaux is always alive, no matter the season, Gaston,” she said. “Though I am anxious to see the flowers on the Champs d’Urthëmiel bloom once more.”

“Indeed.” The steward was sweating under his mask. It was a bit unsightly, which made Celene wonder if he liked the warmer weather as much as he claimed to. “It will still be pleasant to pass more time outside.” He yawned, loudly, and stopped in horror. “Forgive me, mademoiselle.”

Celene’s smile didn’t falter, but she instantly made a note to report it to the chief housekeeper. Servants of the Imperial Family did not have the right to yawn, especially ones ranked as high as steward.

He eventually led her to a set of doors manned by four servants, who bowed before Celene and pulled the doors open for her. Nodding at the steward, she walked into the Blue Room with her back straight and her head held high. As the name suggested, the walls were painted in various shades of blue, giving one the impression of being among the waves of Lake Celestine. Large windows looked out on the grounds, and off in the distance the spires of Val Royeaux could be seen just above the trees surrounding the park. A large mahogany table covered in fruit sat in the middle of the room, where her parents and a man wearing a familiar mask were already having breakfast.

“Duc Prosper!” Celene said, taken aback. She curtsied, glad that her mask had hidden her surprise. “Forgive me, I was not told you were here.”

“He just arrived,” her father, Prince Reynaud, said. His beard had been dyed bright red that morning and was curled to touch the underside of his chin. Eyes shining from underneath his golden mask, he motioned for his daughter to take her seat to his right. “Our cousin has come to invite you to the Grande Royeaux tonight. There is a premiere for a new play, and the whole city will be there.”

“Oh?” She cursed internally. She had hoped to spend the night in. “What is its name?”

“‘The Lion and the Dragon.’” Her mother was perfectly dressed, as always. That morning she was wearing a gown in green silk that was delicately embroidered with silver jasmine buds. Madame Clarisse was toying with a few pieces of fruit, careful to keep the juices off her fine silks. Being a Montfort, her mask was silver and shaped like a fox. “A fitting play for you to be seen at.”

“I believe you say that about every play I’m invited to, Mother,” Celene said carefully, taking her seat. A servant placed a small pile of fruit on her plate while another poured her a cup of tea. “I don’t see what makes this one particularly special.”

“It is the history of our family, Celene,” Clarisse said firmly. “What’s more, Duc Prosper tells us that the emperor himself plans to attend. There is no better way to emphasize your status as a member of the Imperial Family than to be seen in the same theatre as His Radiance, all while watching a play about your shared origins.”

Celene took a sip of tea, and already her headache seemed to fade. “Very well,” she said. “I promise you, though, if one more man proposes to me, I shall shave my head and join the cloisters.”

“Ah, you have received even more offers?” Prosper asked, leaning forward. As always, his silver fox’s mask looked strange and mocking, as if he knew something you didn’t. “How many, if I may ask?”

Celene inclined her head. “You may, Cousin, they were all done publicly enough. Nine men proposed last night.” She paused. “The Marquis of Serrault made an offer as well, but seeing as he is already married I took it to be a joke.”

“ _Nine_ offers?” her mother said. “ _Saint Créateur_ , Celene, that is wonderful news! You should be quite proud.”

“I would be prouder if I found any of them satisfactory,” Celene sighed, swallowing a grape. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but at times your sex can be exceedingly dull.” It was a line she used often, one that rebuffed her suitors yet made clear that she was waiting to be impressed. Her mother had come up with it for her, training her to say it in just the right tone and with just the right gestures.

“If you wait for a man to pique your interest, you shall die an old maid, my dear,” Clarisse said, another old line she had written. She motioned to the nearest servant for more tea. “Few women have ever married men for their wit.”

“I believe that was directed to me,” Reynaud said.

“I have been far more fortunate than most women, _mon cher_ ,” Clarisse said, tilting her head. “Thank you for the invitation, Cousin. Celene would be delighted to accept.”

Celene took another sip of tea; in Orlais, the parent always accepted or rejected an invitation for the child. She hated it. Duc Prosper, however, bowed his head and said, “Excellent. I may even be able to gain her an audience in the Imperial Box.”

“You are far too kind to us, cousin,” Clarisse said, smiling as broadly as decorum would let her. “We accept with pleasure, don’t we, Celene?”

Celene would rather toss herself from the White Spire than spend any more time in front of the depressed, tired emperor of Orlais. “It would be a great honor, Cousin Prosper.”

“Then I shall make the proper arrangements.” The duc stood up and bowed. “Forgive me, Cousin Clarisse, but I must be off. Business calls me back to the capital.”

“Of course.” The Valmonts rose as well, bowing to their cousin. “I shall see you tomorrow, Prosper,” her mother said. “I do hope you enjoy yourselves at the theatre.”

“Thank you, Clarisse. I shall call for Celene at dusk.” Clarisse snapped her fingers. The servants leapt to their feet and opened the doors for the duc, who bowed once more and left the room.

The family sat in silence for a moment. “I do not like the theatre, Mother,” Celene said, looking straight ahead out the windows. “And I would rather not be presented again to the emperor.”

“That is not your decision to make, Celene.” Her mother’s voice was as cold as the marble floors. “If you wish for our plans to succeed, you must do as you are told.”

Celene rolled her eyes, grateful for the mask that kept her mother from seeing her. “Their plans” only meant one thing: seeing Celene become Empress of Orlais. “If that should happen, I will need to know how to make decisions for myself,” Celene said, trying to keep herself calm. “How can you expect me to do so if I can’t even make the simplest ones now?”

“Luckily, you will always have your parents for that,” Clarisse replied. “And after we are gone, your husband will make your decisions for you.”

Celene looked up, horrified. “Mother!”

Her mother cut her off with a look. “Celene,” she said, picking up her teacup, “do not speak to me in that tone of voice. You have clearly lost your _sang-froid_. You shall never master the Game with an attitude like that.”

She was right, of course. “Forgive me, Mother,” Celene said, bowing her head. “I am tired this morning, that is all.”

“Ah, yes, I heard that you had perhaps a bit too much to drink last night.” Clarisse shook her head. “Never have more than two glasses of wine a night, Celene, any more and you could forget yourself. But no matter, take a turn in the gardens today. It will clear your head, I am sure of it.”

“I shall.” Celene finished her tea and stared out the window towards the towers of Val Royeaux. _How nice it must be to not have to worry about the throne, your family, or how much wine you’re drinking_ , she thought. “What are your plans for the day?”

“I shall be meeting with Ser Jehan, from our estates in Val Aubin,” her father said, twirling his beard. “Evidently the wheat harvest has been less fruitful than we had expected.”

“And I am to go riding with _la grande catin_ Calienne,” her mother sighed. “She thinks that because she is a Ghislain she can look down her giant nose at the rest of us. She is too much to be borne.”

“And yet we must,” Reynaud said. “Gaspard has become remarkably cocky about his plans for the throne, we must all try to convince him that we are no threat to his ambitions.”

“I know, _mon cher_ ,” Clarisse said. “I will play my part as I always do, all for the sake of Gaspard and his horrid bride. I shall have that horse Calienne eating out of my hand.” A bell rang in the distance. “That must be for me – I should be off. Reynaud, remind Ser Jehan that his family owes ours everything, and that if he cannot solve our harvest problems we will find someone else who can.”

“Of course, _ma chérie_ ,” Reynaud said. “I wish you luck with Madame Calienne.”

“I shall need it.” Clarisse rose from the table. “I wish you all a good day – and Celene, remember what I said about the gardens. Farewell.”

“Farewell, Mother,” Celene murmured into her teacup. The servants opened the doors for her mother, and with a rustle of skirts she left the room.

Celene and her father sat in silence for a moment. “Your mother has your best interests at heart, _ma puce_ ,” Reynaud said finally.

“I know, Father,” Celene said. The walls of the room suddenly seemed to spin; she wondered if her stays had been drawn in too tight. “Forgive me, Father,” she said, setting down her teacup. “I feel somewhat faint – perhaps it would be best if I took to the gardens immediately.”

“Very well.” Her father clapped his hands, and a team of servants came into the room and began clearing the table. She rose to her feet and walked towards the door. “Celene?” She turned around. Reynaud’s golden mask was glinting in the sun. “Do not forget your duty to this family, my dear.”

Celene Valmont curtsied, her own lion’s mask gleaming in the morning light as well. “I could never, Father.” With that, she turned around and walked out the doors. “Call for my lady’s maid,” she murmured to the nearest servant. “I wish to take a walk.”

* * *

 

Briala raced through the back halls of the Palais de Valmont, Celene’s gown bundled in her arms. The fabric smelled strongly of rosewater, a scent that had long since been Briala’s favorite. The cloth itself was smooth, like water, ten times better than the scratchy wool she wore. There were days when she longed to wear clothes of similar quality – those were the days she had to remind herself not to be silly.

A group of lesser maids were crowded around the entrance to the laundry room as she approached. “Well, girls, look who it is,” Dosette, the leader, said. “The knife-ears.”

“Glad to see you’re improving your vocabulary, Dosette,” Briala replied coldly. “You might even work your way up to ‘elf’ one day.”

“You’re always smart, Knife-ears,” Hanine, the second-in-command, said. “You’ll be taken down a notch one of these days, I promise.”

“I’m already shorter than you as it is,” Bria shot back, “how small can you possibly want me to be?”

“Yeah, you’re short!” Maligne was without a doubt the least clever of the three.

“Scathing, Maligne,” Briala said with every ounce of contempt she could muster. “Now ladies, I would love to stay and chat, but as you can see, I have Mademoiselle Celene’s gown with me, and it desperately needs washing. You know she won’t like it if she hears that you kept me from doing my work.”

Scowling, the three girls stepped aside, letting Briala walk through. “Elf bitch,” Dosette hissed as she passed by; Briala clenched her teeth and kept moving forward, head held high.

The laundry room was a massive pit underneath the palace, poorly lit and filled with men and women both elven and human. One side of the room was filled with large brass tubs filled with soap and water; the other side was devoted to drying, with hundreds of pieces of fabric hanging over vents that pumped in dry hot air. Briala instantly felt dehydrated. All around her, people were flushed and wet, taking great care not to sweat on the family’s linens.

Wading through the crowd, she made her way over to one of the larger tubs where a tough looking elven woman was scrubbing a nightgown clean. “ _Maman_ ,” Briala said, kissing her cheek. “I have Mademoiselle’s gown for you.”

“Ah, finally.” Her mother stood up and stretched her back, rubbing her weary eyes with sopping hands. Her simple wool dress was drenched with soap water. “Are there any wine stains on this one?”

“Not that I can tell,” Briala said, placing it on the stone table near her mother. “Though she did say that she drank too much last night.”

Sirini shook her head and began examining the garment. “She shouldn’t take so many risks. The Game’s hard enough as it is without drinking.”

Briala shrugged. “She says it relaxes her, makes her more confident.”

“Then she should learn to find her confidence elsewhere,” her mother said. She sighed and tucked a strand of Briala’s hair behind her ear. “But that’s for you to tell her and not me.”

“ _Maman_ ,” Briala sighed, “I don’t have the sway over Celene you think I do. And even if I did, I wouldn’t want to use that sort of influence.”

“Don’t be a fool, Bria,” her mother said, lowering her voice. “We’re elves. We mean nothing to these people. Whatever power we can find, we have to take.”

Briala bit her lip. She hated when her mother spoke like that. Not only did it discredit her love for Celene, it discredited Celene herself. Sirini saw her expression and sighed. “That’s enough of that talk for now, though,” she said, touching her shoulder. “Did you have enough for breakfast?”

She nodded. “Porridge and butter – a bit of syrup as well.” Her stomach grumbled slightly. “I wouldn’t say no to lunch, however.”

“Nothing I can do there,” her mother said, sighing. “They might be clearing their breakfast soon, see if you can—”

“Miss Bria!” someone called from the door; she looked up to see one of the kitchen staff looking through the room for her. “Miss Bria! Mademoiselle wants to see you in the gardens right away!”

“Of course,” she called back, bowing. She flashed her mother a quick grin. “No rest for the wicked, I guess.”

“Maker preserve us,” Sirini sighed, going back to her work. “I’ll see you tonight, my Brialig.”

Twenty minutes later, she was walking in the gardens, three steps behind Celene.

“She’s the most _aggravating_ , _inconsiderate_ , _condescending_ woman in Thedas, Bria!” Celene was saying, gesticulating wildly. Briala could only see the back of her head, which was glowing brightly in the sunlight. “She treats me like a child and expects me to listen to her every word from now until the day she dies!”

“Your mother only wants what’s best for you, mademoiselle.” Briala was careful never to address her by her first name in public.

“Oh no, that’s where you’re wrong,” Celene said. Her long mane of hair shook violently as she spoke. “She doesn’t care a jot about me, it’s the family that she’s interested in – a family she’s not even a part of!”

Briala was shocked. “Mademoiselle…”

“You know it’s true! She’s a Montfort, what does she know about the Imperial Family?” Celene kicked at a rock and sent it skidding across the garden. “And then my father just sits there and says ‘ _Oui, ma chérie_ ’ or ‘ _Bien sûr, ma chérie_ ’, doesn’t give a damn what I think or what I feel…Maker, my life is miserable…”

Celene often liked to pity herself. “The life of a Valmont is easier than most, mademoiselle,” Briala said. She thought it was important to remind Celene of that; it usually gave her a bit of perspective. They were walking by the fountain now, the water shining like diamonds as it splashed through the air.

Celene laughed bitterly. “Stop saying that, Bria, it’s not true. This is _miserable_. With my life signed away to every noble in the bloody continent and all the parties and ambition and these damn _masks_ …” With a gasp of frustration she tore her mask off and threw it into the fountain, where it sank glimmering to the bottom. “I hate the Game sometimes, Bria,” she said, sitting down at the fountain side. “I just wish I could walk away and leave all this mess behind me.”

Briala sat down beside her. She had the sudden, crazy urge to say what she had been thinking for years. “You could, you know,” she said, her heart beginning to race.

Celene frowned, her skin radiant in the morning light. “What do you mean?”

“You could give it all up now,” Briala said. “Marry one of your suitors, have a few children, rejoin the Game when you’re ready.” _Retire to the countryside, spend the rest of your life with me_. They were foolish fantasies, but wouldn’t they make everyone so much happier? Her heart beat even faster. “I imagine that’d be fairly easy, even.”

Celene reflected on this for a moment, trailing her hand in the fountain’s water. Briala was once again struck by how beautiful the Valmont girl was, and how lucky she felt to be loved by her. How could she ever listen to her mother and try to manipulate her? “I guess I don’t hate it as much as that,” Celene said finally, a small smile spreading across her face. Briala smiled back at her, masking the disappointment that immediately gripped her heart. “Maker knows I could never live in the countryside, and at least there’s always lots of wine at all the parties. And besides,” she said, stretching out in the sun, “I do like the sound of ‘Empress Celene’. If I can keep that bastard Gaspard off the throne at the same time, then all the better.”

“Spoken like a true Empress of Orlais,” Briala said.

“You may be right.” Celene stared at her warmly. “Oh, Bria, what would I do without you?”

Briala knew that Celene could never dare to kiss her in a place as public as the gardens; still, she couldn’t help but wish that she would. “You won’t ever have to worry about that, Celene,” she murmured, letting the rush of the fountain cover up her transgression. “And you’ll only have to listen to your mother for a little while longer. Once you’re empress, no one can tell you what to do.”

Celene sighed. “And I suppose in order for that to happen, I need to go to the theatre.”

“Indeed. And in order for _that_ to happen…” Briala stuck her arm in the fountain, letting the cool water go up to her elbow. The delicate gold mask shone like the sun as she pulled it out, making both of them look away. Drying it on her dress, she made sure it was warm enough before tying it tenderly around Celene’s face. “There,” she said gently, taking a step back. “Now you’re the Lioness of Valmont. Time to let them hear you roar.”


	2. At the Grande Royeaux

As the sun began to set over the Palais de Valmont, a golden carriage broke free from the gates, heading towards the city of Val Royeaux. Inside the coach, Celene nestled back on her blue velvet seat, letting the cool night air waft over her face. The carriage wheels were specially balanced to ride smoothly on the rough roads leading to the capital; anyone riding inside would not be bothered by potholes en route.

Briala sat across from her, dressed in clean purple linen. Her mask was a perfect copy of Celene’s, gilded wood taking the place of gold. “The wind might ruin your hair, Celene,” she murmured, careful to keep her eyes out the window in case anyone was observing the road. It wouldn’t do to have the two caught making eye contact, especially alone in a carriage at night.

Celene smiled from beneath her mask. “My hair isn’t budging, Bria. I have so much pomade on I might as well be wearing a helmet.” It had taken four of the palace maids three hours to prepare her for the evening.  She was wearing a purple silk gown with roses embroidered in gold thread: the colors of the Imperial family. Her hair had been carefully pleated and braided, balanced delicately around her gold lion’s mask. The mask had been studded with purple sapphires for the evening, making it weigh heavily on her face. “I need some fresh air, anyways. Otherwise I might faint.”

“You need to tell me if you actually do feel ill,” Briala said anxiously. “Especially if Prince Gaspard does end up coming…”

Duc Prosper had sent word ahead to the palace an hour before she had left. Celene wouldn’t be the only Valmont seeking the emperor’s attention that night. Her cousin, Prince Gaspard de Chalons, would be attending the theatre as well. Gaspard was several decades older than her and a renowned chevalier, the highest-ranking man to have ever joined Orlais’s elite warrior class. Though he openly voiced his contempt for the Game, he and his wife Calienne were some of its most adept players, and many respectable families in Val Royeaux had been ruined in their moves to maintain power. The very idea of facing Gaspard made her stomach churn; she suddenly wished she had a glass of wine. “Gaspard won’t notice me,” she said, more to convince herself than anything. “He’ll be too busy preening to do anything else.”

 “Celene, you have to take this seriously,” Briala said. Celene furrowed her eyebrows. She could hear a lot of her mother’s voice in what the elf was saying. “The play’s going to be very symbolic, and you know the emperor hardly ever leaves the palace anymore. People need to see you with him, and yet you also need to convince Gaspard that you’re not a threat. If he tries to embarrass you, though...”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Bria,” Celene snapped. Her heart had started to flutter; the idea of Gaspard hovering over her like a hawk had sent a chill down her spine. “I know what tonight means.” The carriage plunged into an awkward silence as Briala sat up stiffly, her hands folded in her lap. Celene instantly felt guilty. “I’m sorry, Bria,” she said, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t have—”

“It is quite all right, Mademoiselle.” Briala’s voice had grown distant and formal; Celene felt like an idiot. “It was wrong of me to speak out.”

“Bria…”

“I believe we are approaching Val Royeaux, mademoiselle,” Briala said firmly. “I can hear the city already.”

She was right; Celene could hear the faint murmur of music and horses as well. The clamor of Val Royeaux spilled out of the city walls no matter the time of day. The carriage had almost reached the Porte du Soleil, the massive golden gate that led into the city. Engraved with an image of the emperor Kordilius Drakon, during the day the gate could blind an entire approaching army. Fortunately, that night there was no such obstacle. At the sign of an Imperial carriage, the guards minding the gate split in half and fell to one knee, heads bowed as she passed through. Mad at herself for her misstep with Briala, Celene stared out the window, taking in the sights of the city.

Even at night, Val Royeaux sparkled and shone like the jewels on her mask. The avenue leading from the Porte du Soleil to the center of the city was massive, wide enough for eight carriages. Giant statues lined the road, all portraying former emperors and empresses. Many were wreathed in flowers to celebrate the arrival of spring, filling the air with the scent of jasmine and Andraste’s Grace. The city was still alive, filled with lit store fronts and bustling taverns. Many people stood and bowed as her carriage passed, a sea of masks bobbing and glimmering in the lantern light of the streets.

Most intoxicating of all, however, was the music that flowed through the city like the breeze. Every corner of Val Royeaux echoed with song, from the deep tones of cellos to the light pluckings of lutes. Celene rested her head back on her seat and closed her eyes, letting the music soothe her thoughts and calm her heart. If she listened closely, she could pick out the faint notes of the Chant of Light that rang out from the Grand Cathedral, hovering over the roofs and steeples to remind Royans that theirs was the city of the Maker.   

As they reached the giant Drakonius fountain in the city center, the driver changed directions, heading down the boulevard that led to the Grande Royeaux. This road was much narrower, lined with marble buildings and a long arcade. Garlands had recently been wrapped around the arcade’s pillars and draped over the road, almost giving one the impression of being in a forest. “ _Que c’est charmant_!” Celene gasped, temporarily forgetting her argument with Briala. “It reminds me of Halamshiral!”

Even Briala seemed impressed. “It is very well done,” she agreed. “There is nothing more beautiful than Val Royeaux in springtime.”

“Except for you,” Celene wanted to say, which was true. She had never seen anyone more lovely than her Bria. However, now that they had fought, and especially now that they were in public, she didn’t dare do so. “Well said, Briala,” she said instead, her eyes fixed on the streets.

The street was starting to get crowded with carriages, all full of nobles eager to get into the theatre. As a member of the Imperial Family, Celene was allowed direct access inside, bypassing the lines of people waiting to walk through the main entrance. Her carriage entered the arch under the building where the Imperial entrance lay, coming to a halt right in front of the golden doors. To her dread, Prince Gaspard’s carriage was already parked in the theatre’s stables, its gold shining just as bright as hers in the torchlight. Tonight was not going to be easy.

The footman hopped off the carriage and opened the door for her. “Mademoiselle.”

“ _Merci_ ,” she said, taking his hand. Behind her, Briala swept her long silk skirts off the seat, taking care that Celene didn’t trip. The night air felt good against her neck, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. It would be stuffy inside, and she was likely to get over-hot. She started walking up the large marble steps, her head held high.

“Keep your back a little straighter,” Briala murmured behind her, still rather curt. “And be sure to show off your necklace – everyone has to notice how wealthy you are.”

“It would be hard not to,” she shot back. The familiar sense of dread she got before entering a social event was building in her stomach. “Do I look all right, Bria?” she whispered suddenly, staring up at the shining doors before her.

“You look like a dream, mademoiselle,” Briala said, her voice softening. “And you do not know my name anymore, remember?”

Celene gave the slightest nod and continued on to the giant golden doors, engraved with the image of great prancing lions. A series of servants bowed before her and pushed them open, sending a rush of air inside the theatre. Celene stepped through, trying to look as regal as possible. A series of gasps fluttered through the lobby as a hundred silver masks turned to look at the doors. Celene looked back at them with a practiced smile, practically a porcelain doll.

An announcer in the balcony above her cleared his throat. “ _Permettez-moi de vous présenter_ _son Altesse impériale, la princesse Célène de Valmont d’Orlaïs_!” A sea of masks nodded at her in greeting. She curtsied back to them, managing to make the light of the candles reflect brilliantly off her jewels. She then rose, her heart pounding in her chest. She had passed the first test. Still smiling graciously, Celene quickly made her way to a refreshment table, where a servant poured her wine in a shining crystal goblet.

The Grande Royeaux was three stories high. Inside the actual theatre, the ground floor held the stage, a circular platform containing trapdoors and compartments perfect for bursts of fire and other special effects. The second floor held the boxes for the emperor and the high nobility, while the lower aristocracy was left to the stands on the third floor. The lobby outside, however, stretched over all three stories. It was a magnificent room: two stories of balconies, covered in gold, ivory, and silver, with a massive diamond chandelier radiating light over the marble floors. Everywhere, masked nobles in beautiful silks and jewels were chatting with each other, bright peals of polished laughter echoing against the walls as gentle chamber music played by a troupe of elves in wooden masks floated through the air. At the center of the room was the massive flight of stairs Celene would have to climb to get to her seat, which meant another chance for her to trip, fall, and shame herself in front of the entire empire. Suddenly feeling a little faint, she took a measured yet large sip of wine, letting the alcohol wash away some of her fears. She was not new to the Game, she reminded herself, and she would not be taken down that night.

“Celene!” someone squealed near her. She turned to see Liselotte de Chevin standing eagerly in front of her, her face hidden by a copper doe’s mask. Liselotte had a penchant for wearing flashy clothing, and in the bright candlelight she was practically glimmering. “I did not expect to see you here tonight!”

“Nor I you, _mon amie_ ,” Celene said with a smile, kissing her cheek. She looked back at her friend and tilted her head. “ _Ma très chère_ , what on earth have you done to your hair?” Her friend’s dark hair was piled three feet over her head, sure to block the vision of anyone behind her.

Liselotte giggled. “I learned this morning that I am to sit in front of the Marquis de Tanguy this evening,” she whispered. “He will not see a thing around my hair.”

The Marquis had recently greatly embarrassed her friend at a private ball. “Oh, please make him suffer,” Celene murmured back. “His son Lord Guillaume made me an offer last night and nearly spilled half a carafe of wine on my gown.”

Liselotte’s eyes glinted behind her mask. “Yes, I heard – are you to give him an answer?”

Celene sipped her wine demurely. “That is my parents’ decision to make.”

“You sly devil,” her friend said, taking a glass of wine off a serving platter herself. “You shall chase all your suitors from you, I am sure of it.”

“I certainly hope not _all_ of them,” someone said behind them; they turned around to see their other friend, Hélène du Mellifort. “My brother will not stop talking about you after last night.”

Celene sighed as she kissed Hélène’s cheek. “Henri would be a very great match indeed…”

“There is no need to be coy with me, _chérie_ , I am quite aware of the game you play.” Hélène glanced at Liselotte’s hair through her bronze owl’s mask. “ _Sainte Andrasté, Bichette_ , your hair must weigh ten pounds! You are going to snap your neck!”

“So long as it snaps back onto the Marquis,” Liselotte said evilly.

“I doubt even you could manage that—oh, _merde_.” She and Liselotte dropped into a curtsy, faces to the floor. Celene turned around to see a mask that was almost identical to her own, save for the green emeralds of Chalons that had replaced her Valmont sapphires. “Cousin Gaspard,” she said, curtsying. “How lovely to see you.”

“Always a pleasure, Little Kitten,” he said, grinning coldly. “And you as well, Mademoiselle de Chevin and Mademoiselle du Mellifort. I am glad to see you have managed to keep your friends close, _ma cousine_.”

“Friendship is a very important thing,” Celene said, trying to keep her tone light. “I hope I shall never lose yours, _mon cousin_.”

“Then let us hope that the friendship between us is never tested,” Gaspard said. Celene felt a chill go down her spine; he was looking at her as though she were an animal of prey. She smiled back at him faintly, trying to break his gaze, but his eyes were boring into her through his mask, dominating her without saying a word.

Suddenly the chamber had filled with wind. Once again, the Imperial entrance had been opened, and now trumpets were blaring over the gentle strains of the ambient music. On instinct, Celene dropped into a deep curtsy. The rest of the nobility followed suit, dropping to their knees as the court announcer raised his voice once more. “ _Sa Majesté impériale, Florian de Valmont, empereur d’Orlaïs, roi de Férelden, et défenseur de la Foi_!”

Though her head was tilted towards the floor, Celene was still able to glance at the ruler of Orlais through the eyes of her mask. The emperor wore robes of bright gold silk, a purple sash tied around his waist. His mask, though similar to hers, was five times as glorious, haloed by a small sunburst and bearing bright purple diamonds. His long hair, flowing down his back, had turned white many years ago; Florian’s life had not been easy. Although he still called himself its king, his reign had seen the loss of Ferelden to the rebels under Maric Theirin. The rebellion had cost the emperor a crown and a cousin – a cousin who, as some court whispers would have it, had also been his lover. He had long since lost his wife and children to disease. For the most powerful man in Thedas, Emperor Florian’s life was far from enviable.

As he passed by her, he stopped and looked over. “Prince Gaspard,” he said, his tired voice echoing in the silent vestibule. “Princesse Celene. How odd to see two Valmont kittens playing in the same corner.”

“There is but one kitten here, Sire,” Gaspard said, nodding his head. “But she keeps up well enough.”

“Even the smallest kittens have claws, Cousin.” Titters spread throughout the room; Celene was glad her mask covered her faint blush. Like most of her better repartees, this thought had come to her out of nowhere. She shouldn’t have said it – it would only antagonize the prince.

The emperor shook his head. “Take care those claws do not tear this empire to pieces once I am gone,” he said gravely. Celene and Gaspard bowed their heads further, murmuring their apologies. Muttering to himself, Florian slouched forward, walking up the marble steps leading to the Imperial Box.

This was the cue for the rest of the nobles to make their way to their seats. “Cousin Celene!” someone said from behind her. She turned to see Duc Prosper bow before her. “ _Quel plaisir de vous voir_! You look absolutely exquisite! Allow me to escort you to your box.”

“With pleasure, my cousin.” She turned back to Liselotte and Hélène; as daughters of a marquis and a comtesse, they would be watching from different boxes, unable to mingle with the Imperial family and the dukes and duchesses of Orlais. “I shall see you at the salon later tonight, _mes amies_ ,” she said, nodding her head. “Enjoy the show.” Her friends curtsied back demurely, made shy by the duc’s presence. Holding her head high, Celene took a final sip of wine from her goblet before handing it to Briala, who had appeared at her side as if out of nowhere. “Bring me another glass in my box,” Celene murmured to her. The elf nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

Prosper took her hand and began to lead her up the stairs, his silver mask gleaming in the candlelight. “My valet tells me that there is quite a lot of talk among the servants tonight,” he murmured, so quiet she herself had trouble hearing him. “Be on your guard. I believe Prince Gaspard means to make a statement tonight.”

She nodded slightly, still smiling though her stomach had clenched. “Do you have any idea what he might do?”

“ _Non_ ,” the duc said, leading her through the doors to their box at the left of the emperor’s. “Just be on your guard. And remember, tonight is an important night for you as well. This play is about your family, your name – make sure the bloated hens gathered here are aware of it.”

She was starting to have a slight headache. Sitting down on her velvet chair, she nodded as Briala appeared out of the shadows to place a glass of wine on a small table to her side. “ _Merci_ ,” she murmured, not daring to look at her in front of the duc. Briala bowed her head and retreated back into the corner of the box with the duc’s servant, waiting for any further instructions.

Duc Prosper sat down next to her and pulled out a small set of silver theatre glasses, which he perched on the nose of his mask. “ _Cela va être passionant_ ,” he said, gazing down at the stage. “Half of Val Royeaux is here.”

“Indeed,” she replied, sipping at her wine. The taste of the alcohol made the collected gaze of hundreds of Orlais’s finest much less intrusive on her skin. “Tell me, cousin, is this play known to be any good?”

“If the playwright values his head, it will be,” Prosper said. “One does not present a poorly-written play about the Imperial Family’s origins to the emperor himself. Ah! I believe it is starting.”

Music had begun to play down below. Celene leaned forward in interest. Her box had an almost perfect view of the stage on the bottom floor – only one small area was blocked by a pillar from the emperor’s box. The score from the musicians swelling below them, the actors rose up from the stage through trap doors.

“Val Royeaux’s flowers bloom this spring, yet Orlais’s winter is far from over.” The elven woman wore a green mask, showing that she was playing the main male role, Celene’s ancestor Alphonse Valmont. “Who shall end the tyranny the royal dragon forces on us all?”

A human woman approached her from behind. “What do you speak of, my love?” Her purple mask indicated that she was playing the main female role, Alphonse’s wife, Lucianne.

Alphonse shook his head, commanding the stage. “The cruel grasp of Imperial Will, my sweet, nothing more.”

The play continued on in this fashion, stopping at an intermission moments before Alphonse challenged the emperor Xavier Drakon to a duel. It was a remarkably good play, Celene thought: the writing was crisp and the acting was excellent. The elven actress playing Alphonse Valmont was particularly good; Celene had never seen a better portrayal. By the time the lights had faded, she was completely hooked.

“That is an extraordinary Alphonse,” she murmured to Prosper. “Do we know where she comes from?”

He shrugged. “The gutters, knowing most elves. But enough talk of them – we must get you to the Emperor’s box.”

Celene’s stomach clenched. “Is that really necessary, Cousin?”

“Don’t be silly,” he scoffed. “You are right next to him, it would be rude not to call on His Radiance.”

She fought the panic rising in her throat. “Might I bring my servant, then?”

“Hm?” Prosper glanced to where Briala stood in the shadows. “Ah, the elf. I suppose you may bring it if you choose – Maker knows it will not be the first one the emperor has seen. Make sure it does not address His Radiance, though. That is exactly the kind of scandal we wish to avoid.”

Celene was mortified. She knew how dignified her Bria was, and those kind of remarks were sure to cut her to the core. Still, there was nothing she could say. “Briala is the soul of discretion.”

“Wonderful. Let us hurry, then – we do not have long before the intermission ends.” He led the way out of the box, not bothering to look down at the servants. Celene floated past them as well and whispered, “More wine!” to Briala. The elf nodded and disappeared out the door behind her.

* * *

 

Briala raced down the halls of the theater, not bothering to glance at the finery surrounding her. She had already seen it all a hundred times before, and in any case there were other things on her mind. The duc’s words were making her blood run hot. There was nothing she loathed more than being called ‘It.’ She was an elf, not a dog. And Celene had said nothing…

 _Of course she said nothing_ , she reminded herself. _There are bigger things at stake here than your feelings._

Her surroundings grew more and more drab the closer she got to the kitchen, until finally she was standing in a dimly lit hallway made of plain stone. The doors to the kitchen were crowded with servants, all clamoring for fresh wine and food for their masters. She stood at the back of the crowd and cleared her throat. The people near the back glanced at her and quickly stepped out of the way out of respect of her lion’s mask. Sliding through the crowd, Briala made her way to the bar and rapped for the steward’s attention. “What do you want?” he asked, wiping sweat from his brow as he handed a tray of cakes to a portly old woman wearing the colors of the de Meluns.

Briala cleared her throat, struggling to make herself heard in the chaos of the basement. “Mademoiselle de Valmont would like a glass of wine.”

“Yeah, I bet she would,” the barkeep muttered. Briala raised an eyebrow in shock. “Not that I was insulting the princesse,” he said quickly. “Just making an observation.” Briala didn’t say anything. “Oh, Maker’s breath, here you go,” he muttered, handing her a goblet from the counter behind him. “Just don’t have me killed.”

Briala continued to glare at him as she took the glass, then turned around and started to head back. However, the amount of people trying to cram into the quarters before the intermission ended blocked her path. She paused, hesitant to throw herself into the jostling crowd with a full glass of wine. There was another passage, one reserved for the emperor’s servants; it was forbidden to her, but if no one saw her…

There were two guards posted at the passage’s entrance, but luckily, Briala was wearing her gold-painted mask. Neither of them looked down at her as she passed through, more concerned with keeping the rest of the rabble from drawing too close. She darted in through the shadows and sped down the hall, careful not to spill a drop of the wine on her clean dress. She flew up a flight of stairs and made to turn around the corner; suddenly, she froze. Someone else was in the passage.

“Oh, I just can’t do it, Marelle!” a young girl whispered in the darkness. Briala shrank back against the wall. “I’m no good at all this, I’ll mess it all up!”

“Don’t be stupid, Roxette, you can’t just say no,” another woman hissed back. “Prince Gaspard demands total loyalty from all his servants – it’s either this or ending up back on the streets!”

“But why does it have to be Mademoiselle Celene?” Roxette moaned; the hairs on the back of Briala’s neck stood straight up. “She’s so pretty, I bet she’s really lovely…”

The other woman scoffed. “She’s a noble, there’s nothing lovely about her. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to hurt her – the powder will just make her act drunk, it won’t kill her or anything. Just be discrete when you brush it on her. Now stop simpering and hurry up! If anyone catches us here, we’re done for.”

Roxette sighed miserably. “I’m going to muck this up, I just know it.”

Briala’s heart started pounding as the two continued down the passage. Celene’s life might not have been in danger, but her reputation was, and it was hard to tell what was worse in Orlais. She sped stealthily down the hallway, careful not to overtake Gaspard’s servants. She let them leave the passage first; then, taking a deep breath, she stepped out onto the landing, holding her shoulders back. The two guards standing in front of the Imperial Box barely even looked at her. They were there to protect the emperor, not his service passage.

She approached the box and bowed her head, anxious to get inside and warn Celene. “Wine for Mademoiselle de Valmont,” she murmured, eyes to the ground. The guards stepped aside without looking down at her and opened the doors. She stepped in and glanced at the room. It was filled with nobles lucky enough to obtain an invitation, all kneeling on the ground as the emperor paced back and forth, running his hands through his beard. In the center of the room, Celene and Prince Gaspard were in deep bows, waiting for the emperor to acknowledge them. Briala quickly disappeared to the shadows, standing beside a nervous young girl wearing a de Chalons mask.

“A strange play, I believe, yes, mighty strange,” Florian was muttering, almost to himself. “The writer must be a halfwit.”

“I rather enjoy it, Uncle,” Celene said, rising to her feet as the emperor finally nodded at her. From her voice, Briala could tell that her nerves were frayed. “You can tell the author has done his research about our family.”

“ _Oui_ , Kitten, that is true,” Prince Gaspard said, rising from the ground himself. “Not all of us enjoy having our history force fed to us at the theatre.”

“ _A chacun son goût, mon cousin_ ,” Celene replied, nodding her head. “There is much to be learned from history, is there not?”

“At your age, there is much to be learned in general,” the prince said. “It seems that only yesterday I was watching you soil your small clothes in my mother’s salon.”

“And yet here she is now, blossomed into a lovely young rose,” Duc Prosper said, coming to Celene’s rescue. He was still bowing in reverence to His Majesty, a charming smile on his face. Briala tried to keep the contempt she felt for him from showing. “Has she not become a beautiful young woman, Your Radiance?”

“As all young ladies are,” the emperor said, staring down at her. He began stroking his beard thoughtfully, the rings on his wrinkled hands catching in his whiskers. “Valmont purple suits you, _ma nièce_ ,” he said. “Better than green does your cousin.”

“That is not fair, Your Majesty, Kitten is already prettier than I am as it is,” Gaspard said. “Perhaps we should change colors so I might have a chance.”

Briala held her breath. It was the type of innocent comment that could trap anyone who wasn’t on their toes. Celene, however, laughed charmingly and said, “Many other men have said the same thing to me over the past few months. Am I to take this as an offer of marriage? I doubt cousin Calienne would agree to that.”

Gaspard smiled as the room tittered with laughter. “I must accord another man that pleasure,” he said, nodding his head. “One does have to wonder who the lucky man will be? Surely you will bless this fine crowd with news of a royal wedding soon, shall you not?”

“Oh, let the Kitten have her fun before someone clips her tail,” the emperor sighed loudly. “The Blessed Maker knows we have too little time in the sun before our fates are sealed for us.” He glanced over to the corner and seemed to look directly into Briala’s eyes. “Now come, your servants have waited with your refreshments for long enough, we must let them approach.”

Briala glanced over coldly at Roxette, whose hands were trembling. The elf had already figured out how to take care of this. The two approached their masters, heads bowed respectfully. Briala focused on her movements, trying to keep them as controlled as possible. Servants may have been generally ignored in Orlais, but her plan would only work if she moved quickly and discreetly. Roxette moved forward, about to brush past Celene. At that moment, Briala jabbed out with her foot and tripped her, sending Gaspard’s wine glass flying through the air. Roxette gasped in horror as the liquid hit the prince in the face, splattering his fine velvet tunic with a splash of wine. A small brush laced with powder fell from her hand onto the ground.

Briala handed Celene her wine, making quick, discreet eye contact to convey how important her actions had been. She then fell to both knees in front of the emperor, taking care to pick up the brush without touching any of its powder.

There was shocked silence in the room for a moment. “That is one way to be served wine, I suppose,” the emperor remarked.

Gaspard had pulled out a handkerchief, a cruel smile on his face. “I assure you, _Votre Majesté_ , it will not be repeated.” Roxette gave a small moan. Briala knew she’d be on the streets before the play was finished.

Celene was smiling. “Cousin, you are dripping on our uncle’s carpet.”

“Your gifts of observation are astonishing, Kitten.” Gaspard bowed to the emperor and then to the rest of the room. “Sire, I shall take my leave of you. Any longer and I might ruin your rug.” Florian nodded; Gaspard turned around and stormed out, his terrified servants following meekly behind. Briala felt no pity. If you were too stupid to play the Game, you had no place in a prince’s household.

The emperor sighed. “Would that there were enough wine to douse all the nobles in Val Royeaux. The whole city could serve to be taken down a notch or two.”

“A terrifying proposal, Your Majesty,” Celene said, smiling over the brim of her wine goblet. Briala could tell she was reveling in Gaspard’s defeat. “You shall keep the ladies of the empire lying awake in fright with such talk.”

“Hm? Ah, yes, yes, Kitten, you are very clever,” the emperor said absentmindedly, taking to stroking his beard once more. Music flared up on the stage again and the lights in the theatre began to flare. Florian sighed and returned to his seat. “The play is recommencing, my little chickens,” he said, resting his head on one hand. “Return to your coops, or you shall miss the whole thing.”

Briala rose to her feet as Celene swept past, making her way back to her box. She quickly followed behind Duc Prosper, who was barely able to conceal his glee.

“Bravo, Celene,” he whispered, leading her to her seat. “Bravo! _Quelle triomphe!_ The look on Gaspard’s face alone! And you, looking so poised and so elegant! The whole city shall be talking about your victory!”

“We have my handmaiden to thank for everything,” Celene said, glancing back at her. Briala curtsied quickly. “I doubt you noticed, Cousin, but she managed to trip the prince’s serving girl earlier.”

“The girl was tripped?” he asked in surprise. “You are right, I did not notice. I merely thought she was clumsy.” He glanced over at Briala. “A skillful move, though a risky one,” he told her. “I hope it is more prudent in the future.”

Briala felt her temper flare. Emboldened by her anger, she bowed her head and presented the brush to both of them. “Monsieur de Chalons’s servant was carrying this,” she said, staring at the ground. “There was a plot to brush the powder against Mademoiselle’s skin. I believe the goal was to make her appear intoxicated in front of His Radiance.”

“You see, Cousin? My handmaid is the soul of discretion,” Celene said gently. “Without her quick thinking my reputation would have been ruined.” Briala felt the tips of her ears flush at the warmth in Celene’s voice.

He shrugged. “As I said, it did very well…ah, but the play is starting!”

The rest of the production was equally as good as the beginning. Although Briala couldn’t see the stage from where she stood, the actors had powerful voices and the music was excellent. She was thoroughly entertained. By the time the actors were disappearing beneath the stage, the entire audience had risen to its feet to applaud them.

“It was wonderful, simply wonderful!” Liselotte was saying excitedly in the lobby afterwards, the bright lights glinting off her mask. “The actors were splendid, the music divine, and the marquis didn’t catch a glimpse of it!”

“Oh, never mind him,” Hélène snapped. “Celene, is it true? Did you really spill wine all over Monsieur de Chalons?”

“Oh, nonsense,” Celene scoffed, smirking as she took a sip of wine. “He spilled it all over himself.”

The two gasped. “Why, you sly little thing!” Liselotte said. “Here I am, going on about the stupid marquis, when that’s gone and happened! He must have been terribly embarrassed!”

“Oh, awfully,” Celene said. “But before I tell you the rest, I shall need more wine.”

Briala nodded and ran to the nearest refreshment table, picking up a goblet and quietly checking it for poison with the enchanted spoon. She then turned around to try and find Celene again in the sea of nobles. However, as she did, a flurry of whispers began circling in the back of the room, rolling like waves through the crowd. She frowned; there was a sudden tension in the air. Suddenly, the crowd in the middle of the lobby split apart and the emperor was bursting out of the building, jostled by a company of bodyguards. Briala’s eyes went wide. Had someone tried to assassinate him?

Then two servants next to her began to whisper in horror. Briala listened to what they said eagerly, hoping to be able to report back to Celene with the wine. Once she’d heard what they’d said, she dropped the wine glass in horror. No one paid her any attention, however. She immediately began pushing her way through the crowd, anxious to get back to Celene.

The princesse was still talking animatedly to her friends, a broad smile on her face. “What could possibly be happening?” she said. “Do you think they found Gaspard crying in a privy?”

She had almost reached her. “Mademoiselle!” she said urgently, “we have to—”

It was too late. “I am so sorry, Kitten,” Prince Gaspard said gravely, walking up behind them. He had exchanged his tunic for a chevalier’s breastplate, and his face looked surprisingly somber given his recent embarrassment. “Calienne and I give you our condolances.”

Celene’s smile had faltered. “What do you mean, Cousin?” she asked nervously; Briala’s heart dropped. “I am afraid we have not yet been informed.”

The prince looked grim. “You have not yet been told? A scandal – you should have been the first to know.”

Celene’s smile was fading quickly. “What sort of news is it, Cousin?”

“The worst sort,” he replied. “Kitten, your mother is dead.”

Celene’s face went white. Ignoring Gaspard’s dark gaze and the ladies’ horrified gasps, Briala stepped forward and escorted her mistress out the door to the carriages. She held her in her arms as they rolled away from the city, hushing the sobs that began to flow from behind her golden mask, staying by her side as they waited for dawn to come.


	3. After the Funeral

Briala’s mother woke her before dawn, shaking her gently in her little cot near the fireplace in the room their family shared. “Brialig, it’s time,” she whispered. “You need to get up.”

Briala stirred awake slowly, huddled under the scratchy sheets that Celene often promised to one day replace with fine silk. She was still tired, and for a moment she turned away from her mother, trying to squeeze in a few more moments of sleep. Then, with a start, she remembered what day it was, and sat up straight. “Maker, what time is it?” she asked in a panic, leaping out of bed. “I should have known I would do this, I’ve been so tired lately!”

“Calm down, Bria, you’re fine,” her mother said, handing her a wet cloth. “We still have hours before the ceremony. And her name is ‘Mademoiselle’, especially on today of all days.”

Briala took the rag and began to scrub her face with it, hiding her irritation at what her mother had said. Today would be one of the hardest days in Celene’s life, and here she was, going on about the Game. She finished wiping her face and quickly dabbed a few drops of lemon water behind her ears before standing up and changing into a clean undershirt. “It’s going to be a difficult day,” she said finally, smoothing back her hair. “Mademoiselle’s still horribly upset.”

“You’d almost think she actually cared about the woman,” her mother sighed, pulling a freshly-dyed black dress over her daughter’s head. Briala bit her tongue to keep from saying what she was thinking. “Well, it’s always the ones with something to regret who are hit the hardest by a death, especially one that happens so _suddenly_. Who would have thought Madame would die after being thrown from a horse?” Sirini shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Make sure she pulls herself together today, Bria, the whole city is going to be watching.”

“The whole city is always watching, Maman, Mademoiselle already knows that,” Briala said irritably.

Sirini tsked and tied a clean-pressed apron around her waist. With a frown, she smoothed back a part of Briala’s hair and then nodded. “There,” she said. “Now you’re perfect.”

“There’s my Brialig!” her father said, coming back into the room with a large pot of porridge. “Eat up, I have breakfast.”

“Adan!” her mother hissed, hitting his shoulder. “Bria’s heading to the cathedral, she can’t eat before the service!”

“Oh, no one else has to know,” her father said, winking. He was tall for an elf, with sandy brown hair and a gentle smile. Briala smiled and stood up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “Half the people there will have eaten, too.”

“No, Adan,” Sirini said harshly. “Our Bria isn’t going to show up before half the empire on a full stomach.”

“Maman’s right, Papa,” Briala said quickly, wishing to avoid a fight. “Besides, I don’t have time to eat now – I need to grab Celene’s full mourning wear from the clothes cabinet and then help her get dressed.”

“‘Mademoiselle’,” her mother reminded again sternly. “Keep your head together, Bria. There’s going to be a thousand sycophants lining up in front of her today, and she’s going to need your help to keep calm in front of all of them.”

“ _Mademoiselle_ can do perfectly fine for herself,” Briala snapped, her patience finally wearing thin. “ _Et sainte Andrasté_ , _Maman_ , stop thinking about the Game for once and have a heart! Her mother is dead.”

“Brialig!” her father said. “Don’t talk to your mother like that!”

“No, no, it’s all right,” Sirini said evenly. Briala winced – that tone was her mother’s most dangerous one. “It’s going to be a long day, her nerves are taut. Just remember, Brialig, the Game never stops for anyone, no matter what happens. You must always play.”

Briala took a deep breath to calm her heart and then nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “ _Pardon_. But I should go – I really don’t have much time.” She picked up the black mourning mask lying on the nearby table and slid it over her face, changing once more into an anonymous Valmont servant.

“Maker be with you, Brialig,” her mother said. “ _Kenavo_.”

Briala nodded again and turned towards the door, picking up an oil lamp that lay in wait for her. “ _Kenavo,_ Maman _. Kenavo,_ Papa _._ I’ll see you later tonight.”

The sun had still not yet risen as she hurried through the halls, the single flame of her lamp reflecting gently off the glass in the windows she passed. It had been a cloudless night with a full moon, the sign of a beautiful day to come. Briala didn’t know if it was better to have lovely or terrible weather for a funeral; the morbidity of the thought made her shiver. It was odd, all the same, waiting for summer weather when already Madame Clarisse’s body was sitting on its pyre in the Grand Cathedral, growing colder by the minute…

It had broken her heart, seeing how Celene had reacted over the past few days. Normally so vivacious and free, the princesse had locked herself in her room, refusing to see the many guests who had come to pay their respects. Only Duc Prosper had been allowed in for a moment, a dramatic scene where he had tearfully pledged his continued support to her, swearing to throw the weight of the Montforts behind her. Celene had listened and whispered her thanks, and the duc had left in sobs, loudly mourning his dead cousin.

The rest of the time, however, Celene had been devastated. She would not eat, would not drink, and hardly wanted to speak. There was nothing Briala wanted more than to help make the pain go away somehow, to hold her until it all stopped hurting. She knew that was impossible, however, and so all she could do was sit with her and hold her hand, listening to her sob and trying to get her to eat.

The night before, though, had been different. Celene had seemed to calm down, drying her own tears and finally being able to speak again. She had asked Briala to leave her to her thoughts for the night – she had a lot to reflect on, she’d said, and she’d taken up enough of Briala’s time as it was. That was, of course, ridiculous; Briala would have spent every night of her life with Celene if she could. But she respected the need for solitude. In any case, even if they were lovers, she still couldn’t turn down an order from her mistress.

The clothes cabinet for the palace was located next to the steward’s bedchamber, as maintaining it was part of his duties. Briala had been right to come early. Celene needed a full court mourning gown, as well as a black veil, black gloves, black shoes, and a black Valmont mask. Getting her into the dress alone could take upwards of thirty minutes, and with all the strain of the day to come it was better to get started sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, for all her planning there was one thing she hadn’t taken into account: Gaston was not in his room.

She frowned, unsure of what this could mean. On that day of all days, the steward should have known to be on time if he valued his head. Was he ill? Was he lying somewhere in the room? His door was closed, but Briala was starting to feel suspicious. She walked forward and pushed it open, peering into the darkened chamber. Gaston wasn’t there – so where was he? She set her lamp on his desk and began to look around, her instincts telling her that something wasn’t right.

At first glance, everything seemed to be in order. Like all the other servants, Gaston kept his room tidy, mainly to avoid censure from the heads of staff. Upon closer inspection, however, Briala was able to find something that seemed out of place. A drawer to Gaston’s nightstand lay half-open, as if someone had shoved something into it hastily before leaving the room. She pulled it open without hesitating. Inside was a small leather bag, filled to the brim with shining gold royals.

There were footsteps in the hallway, and she quickly shoved the drawer half-closed again and walked back to the desk. A moment later Gaston walked in, stopping in shock when he saw her there. He was carrying a large canvas bag that was smeared with black paint. “You!” he snapped. “What are you doing in here?”

“I came looking for Mademoiselle’s clothes, and you weren’t here,” she said, trying to sound imperious. “There wasn’t a note, so I thought I’d look in to try and find you. Where were _you_?”

“Don’t ask me questions like that, elf!” the steward spat. Briala’s spine stiffened. “I don’t care whose maid you are, you have no right to be in here! I should box your ears myself, you little brat!”

“What is the meaning of this?” someone said out in the hallway. Briala looked over Gaston’s shoulder and dropped into a curtsy. Béjart, the head housekeeper and private servant to the prince, was staring at both of them in fury.

“Monsieur!” Gaston said, bowing quickly himself. “I found Briala snooping around in my room, fiddling around where she doesn’t belong!”

“I wasn’t snooping,” Briala said quickly, still in her curtsy. “I came to pick up Mademoiselle’s mourning dress, and Gaston wasn’t here. I only went into his room to see if I could find him.”

Béjart was a tall, rigid man with a full moustache and a long, crooked nose. He looked at both of them suspiciously, clearly unsure as to who to believe. “Well, where were you, Gaston?” he asked, folding his hands in front of him.

Gaston paused, which gave Briala enough time to plan ahead as to what position she was going to take. “I was out in the gardener’s shed,” he said finally, gesturing with the sack. “The dye we used to turn the mourning masks black was rubbing off, so I went out there to paint them all instead. When I came back, I found her here.”

Briala kept her eyes on the floor. “I didn’t know what to think,” she said innocently. “All I know is that the clothes cabinet should have already been opened.”

“Briala is right,” Béjart said sternly. Her heart flooded with relief. “This problem should have been handled before this morning, Gaston, the funeral itself is only a few hours away. This is an Imperial palace, not some minor baron’s country chateau. And you, Briala, you should know better than to enter other people’s rooms without their permission. We run a tight team in this household, and I won’t have my servants running around plotting behind each other’s backs.”

Both Briala and Gaston muttered their apologies and rose from their bows. Briala still kept her eyes narrowed as she passed by the steward, however. Servants didn’t make that much money, no matter who they worked for. Something underhanded was going on. She made a note to tell Celene at the next chance she got and followed Béjart out of the room.

The housekeeper unlocked the clothes cabinet for her and let Briala pick up Celene’s garments. The mourning gown alone was twice her weight; she struggled to keep her knees from buckling and walked back out into the hallway, balancing everything in her arms. “Walk with me for a while, Briala,” Béjart said, watching her impassively as she fought to keep herself steady. “I’m heading towards the family quarters, anyways.”

Briala nodded and started to follow him as he took her lamp. The sun had started to rise over the palace gardens, giving long shadows to all the hedges and statues that were slowly coming to life with color. Like she had predicted, it was going to be a glorious day. “I want to talk to you about Mademoiselle,” Béjart said. “First of all, how is she?”

“Better, I think,” Briala said. “The news hit her hard, though.”

“As it did us all,” Béjart said gravely. “Madame was the glue holding this household together, we should all mourn her parting with deep sadness. That is, however, what I would like to speak to you about.” Briala frowned and looked at him quizzically. “Monsieur would like to make sure that his daughter does not grieve _too_ much today,” Béjart said carefully. “In particular, he thinks it might be wise if Mademoiselle stayed away from any sort of wine or other drink until after the ceremonies. They are, of course, forbidden at events like these, but His Highness was worried she might have a stash of her own.”

“Oh.” Briala did her best to hide the embarrassment she felt for Celene. “I’ll do my best, Béjart.” He nodded and walked away, heading down to the prince’s quarters at the end of the hall. There was no way she could tell Celene what he had said – it was a terrible thing to hear on the day of your mother’s funeral.

The night guards were still posted at Celene’s door when she approached, waiting to be replaced. She nodded at them as they let her pass through, her head barely visible above the pile of clothes. The moment she stepped into the darkened room, however, she knew that something was wrong. The air reeked of something she couldn’t put her finger on, and there was a strange heat, like warm breathing down her neck. Someone was murmuring softly in the darkness, half-laughing at a joke no one had heard. Briala set down the clothes in a rush of fear and turned around, trying to make out Celene in the dim light. Then she saw her. The princesse was sprawled over an overturned footstool, giggling to herself about nothing.

Briala walked up to her warily, unsure of what was going on. Celene barely seemed to notice she was there. She was playing with the skirt of her dressing gown, dangling the tassels in front of her face. “Celene?” Bria asked, crouching down. “Are you all…”

Briala’s voice trailed off as Celene looked up at her. Her lips were stained red with wine, but there was a stronger smell than that on her breath, something foul and probably Dwarven. Briala’s heart sank as the princesse looked at her with red, glazed-over eyes, barely aware of where she was. “Bria,” she chuckled, her voice cracking. “I’m on the floor.”

“Shhhh,” Briala said, unable to think of anything else to say. She cursed herself for being so stupid, for not realizing that this would happen when Celene had sent her away that night. Hadn’t she just promised to Béjart that she would watch out for just this? She held out her hand; Celene held the tassel over it, making it dance over her palm. “Come on, let me help you up.”

“So bossy,” Celene giggled, leaning back. “Bossy Bria! Why are you always so bossy?”

Briala bit her lip. It took a lot to get Celene into that sort of shape, and it would take a lot to get her out of it, too. What was worse, until the funeral was over neither of them would be allowed to eat, which was normally the best way to help Celene calm down. “Please, Celene, you need to get up,” she said, bending down into her face. “We have a lot to do.”

“Mmm,” Celene said, looking at her with glazed, lustful eyes. “How nice to see you, mademoiselle. Care to spend some time on the floor with me?”

She closed her eyes and tilted her chin up for a kiss. Briala, however, was not in the mood. “Celene, seriously,” she said in exasperation. “You can’t do this right now, today’s way too important! We need to be at the cathedral in a few hours!”

Celene stared at her for a moment, and then suddenly burst into tears.

Briala immediately fell to her knees. Maker, she was an idiot! “No, no, it’s all right,” she said, stroking Celene’s hair. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not,” Celene sobbed, burying her face in Briala’s shoulder. “She hated me, Bria! I know she did!”

Briala started. After days of silence, this was the last thing she had expected Celene to say. “What? How can you say that? Your mother loved you!”

“No, she didn’t,” Celene said, hiccupping. “She hated me. You know how she used to talk to me – she couldn’t even stand to be around me.”

“You’re letting the wine talk, Celene,” Briala said, feeling as though the shadows were growing taller around them. She rubbed her shoulder clumsily, already thinking of how she was going to get her sobered up before they left for the city. “All she cared about was you! Everything she did was to help you and your future!”

“And now she’s dead,” Celene whispered. “My mother’s dead, Bria.”

A shiver went down Briala’s spine. This was the first time Celene had spoken like this, and yet she had nothing to say in response. And what could she even say? What did she know of loss and grief? All she could do was let her cry as she had done every night before, stroking her hair and trying to wipe away her tears.

After a few minutes, however, Briala knew that there was no more time to waste. Her mother had been right: the Game waited for no one, and Celene needed to be ready for the day ahead of her. Gently setting the princesse upright on her bed, Briala stood up and immediately set to work. Calling for cold water and a pot of strong tea, the elf quickly tidied up what was left from Celene’s drinking session before turning her attention towards her mistress. Her face still stained with tears, Celene was murmuring to herself with a faraway look in her eyes, as if she were worlds away. After gently splashing her face with the water, Briala forced her to smell the contents of a small silver vial that had been hidden in her nightstand. Celene shuddered slightly and sat up straighter, her eyes still slightly out of focus. Briala sighed. None of this was any good if she couldn’t eat. Celene had gone quiet, however, which Briala took to be a good sign. All her tricks would only really give Celene the appearance of being sober, and it was for the best if she spoke as little as possible.

She dressed Celene in total silence, a long and wearisome process given the many layers of Orlesian court mourning dress. Although Celene wore no makeup or jewelry, her long hair had to be smoothed back under her veil, and the mourning cape that had to be draped across her shoulders was particularly difficult to put into place, as Celene kept swaying back and forth. Spraying her heavily with rosewater to mask the scent of liquor lingering around her, Briala helped her rise to her feet, worried that she would be unable to walk. The princesse, however, held herself surprisingly straight, the effects of the alcohol clearly fading. “We should head to the carriages soon,” Briala whispered finally, touching her arm.

Celene nodded slowly, staring at herself in the mirror for a moment. She looked like a ghost in the middle of the dark room, swathed in heavy black fabric. “Thank you, Bria,” she said finally. “I’m sorry.”

Briala didn’t know what to say. Before she could think of anything, Celene had started to sweep out of the room, her head held high. Light flooded into the room as the doors opened; Briala almost winced, but Celene didn’t seem to notice. The gardens outside were resplendent in the sunlight, the flowers shining like jewels. It was hard to think of death then; but she knew that that had to be all that was on Celene’s mind.

Prince Reynaud was already waiting for them in the vestibule when they arrived. Dressed entirely in black as well, he had taken all the dye from his beard and moustache, leaving them the same shade of blonde as Celene’s hair. “Father,” Celene said, curtsying in front of him. “Good morning.”

The prince merely looked at her and nodded. If possible, Reynaud had reacted even worse than his daughter to the news of his wife’s death. He had locked himself in his study and had not come out for days, refusing to even speak. Now, he looked down at his only daughter as if he hardly recognized her. “Take us to the carriages,” he said suddenly to Béjart, who was standing by the palace doors. “It is time for us to leave.”

Celene’s back had gone stiff, but she betrayed no signs of being injured by her father’s behavior. Briala felt awful for her. There was nothing she could say by that point, however, and so she merely followed the princesse out the doors into the main courtyard.

The air was muggy as they stepped outside, the sun bearing down on them immediately. There were two carriages waiting outside, one for the family and one for the servants. Briala, Béjart, and Antoinette, Clarisse’s lady’s maid, would be riding into the city together. Briala had never particularly cared for Antoinette – even then she was a bit haughty, crying daintily into a silk handkerchief she kept pressed to her cheek. Béjart normally kept to himself, however, which would make the route more pleasant. To Briala’s surprise, however, Gaston was waiting by their carriage, ready to help them inside.

She had forgotten all about him in her attempts to get Celene ready. She turned around on reflex, ready to tell her mistress everything. The door to the family carriage had already closed, however, and the other servants were waiting for her to board.

“Expecting to ride with the prince and princesse, Bria?” Gaston asked nastily, his head cocked as he held the door open.

She shot him a withering look and climbed inside. She’d find a way to get to the bottom of what he was doing – she knew she would.

* * *

Celene’s head had just started aching as her carriage rolled into the city.

She had to admit, it was better than being drunk, at least when it came to the Game. At the very least she was in less danger of humiliating herself. In terms of her heart, however, it made everything far, far worse.

The past few days had been the worst ones of her life. She had never been devastated by anything before – she’d never had the chance to. Now, however, it felt as though the ground had been wrenched out from under her feet. No one could pretend that she had been close to her mother; still, that almost made the loss worse. She couldn’t think about her relationship with her mother, not now. She would go crazy if she did.

It had all happened so suddenly. Clarisse had been out riding with Calienne de Ghislain, and her horse had gotten spooked. The animal had reared back, her mother had been thrown off, and just like that her neck had snapped. It was an awful story, one that had kept Celene lying awake at night ever since. She tried to tell herself that at least it was a quick death, but she wasn’t even sure if that was true. All she did know was that one moment Clarisse de Montfort had been alive and the next she wasn’t, and there was a great void left in her wake.

Her father sat still as a statue across from her in the carriage, not saying a word. She hadn’t seen him since the news of her mother’s death. She knew how much he had to be hurting; he and her mother had been inseparable, and he had relied on her advice for everything he did. However, it was clear he wasn’t going to talk about it, not with her, in any case. They would both be alone in their grief – it was the Valmont way.

Val Royeaux was splendid in the early springtime sun, the light reflecting off the brightly-painted buildings and the golden façades that filled the city. All this only made her headache worse. It didn’t seem right, having this lovely weather on the day of her mother’s funeral. The music, too, seemed inappropriate, as if the day should be a celebration. _My mother is dead_ , she wanted to yell out the window. _Shut up, shut up, shut up_! But of course she knew better than that. All she could do was fold her hands in her lap and stare straight ahead, the picture of perfect, quiet suffering.

As always, you could hear the Grand Cathedral before you saw it, the strains of the Chant of Light growing louder and louder as you approached. It was by far the most beautiful building in Val Royeaux, if not all of Thedas. A massive structure built in white stone, its many towers and turrets were covered in intricate carvings and beautifully painted statues of figures from the life of Andraste. It was the heart of the Chantry and could hold tens of thousands of worshippers at one time. Gleaming brilliantly in the bright summer sun, it looked exactly like the ideal home of the Maker.

The great square in front of the building had already filled with people dressed in black. The crowd bowed as the Valmont carriage passed by, but Celene paid them little attention. The entrance to the cathedral was now visible, and her heart was in her throat. She wasn’t going to be able to do this, not in front of all these people.

“Celene,” her father said coldly. She started – it was the first word he’d said to her in days. “Sit up straight.”

She immediately did as she was told. She had been a fool; there was no question of being able to do something or not, not when you were a Valmont. The carriage rolled in front of the steps leading into the cathedral and jolted to a halt. She took a deep breath to calm herself, letting her father exit the carriage before her. _Andraste, protect me_ , she thought, stepping outside. _Maker, grant me strength._

The air in Val Royeaux was as hot as it had been back at the palace. She and her father, however, were quickly escorted into the cathedral, where a slight breeze carried the sounds of Chantings and the quiet murmurs of the nobility. The interior of the Grand Cathedral was a massive hall, full of towering ceilings and mighty pillars. Beautiful stained glass windows shone gentle light on the crowd below, dappling the entire cathedral with color. The entire sea of nobles rose to their feet once she and her father entered the hall, bowing their heads as they passed down the main aisle. Although her back was straight and her chin was high, Celene’s heart had started to pound. Lying in front of her at the other end of the room was her mother’s pyre.

It was a sturdy bier, worthy of an Imperial funeral. It looked taller than she was, emblazoned with gold and silver and draped with the colors of the Houses of Valmont and Montfort. Just peering over the top, however, were the feet of her mother’s corpse.

Celene immediately dropped her eyes, her hands trembling at her side. She kept walking forward, but at any moment she felt she was sure to faint. She wanted to scream, to cry out, to do something – but instead, she kept her head down, protected by the shield that was her mask. Beside her, her father’s hands had started trembling, too. That, however, was the only sign he betrayed of his own grief.

They arrived at the end of the cathedral, directly in front of the pyre. A tiny old woman in bright red robes and a large square hat rose to greet them. Divine Beatrix III had been at the head of the Chantry for almost twenty years, and the weight of her office seemed to literally be crushing her frail body. “ _Votre Altesse_ ,” she said, bowing to her father. “Greetings on such a sad day. You both have my condolences.” Celene and her father both murmured their thanks, bowing back to her. “I fear I bear bad news, however,” she said, furrowing her brow. “We have just had word from the Imperial Palace. His Radiance will be unable to attend today’s service.”

Prince Reynaud frowned. “Is my brother ill?”

“He did not say,” she said gravely. “I know protocol demands that we wait for the emperor before we can begin an Imperial funeral, but in these circumstances I feel we must proceed without him.”

Celene caught her breath. Such a blatant disregard for tradition and etiquette seemed like a slap in the face to her mother’s memory. After a moment, however, her father nodded. “I agree,” he said stiffly. “Let us start the ceremony.

Celene and her father took their places beside the pyre. Her mother’s body was laying right in front of her – she immediately had to look away. From the altar she could get a perfect view of all the nobles and priestesses come to pay their respects, most bowing their heads as the hymns echoed through the hall. In the sea of black, it was hard to make anyone in particular out. Celene bowed her head, too, focusing on the pain from her headache and the words of the Chant of Light. “I shall not be left to wander in the drifting roads of the Fade, for there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker’s Light,” the choir sang, the words echoing up to the ceiling. “And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

The Divine shuffled forward, the bright red and white of her robes the only splashes of color in the entire cathedral. “ _Mes enfants_ ,” she croaked, holding out her hands. “Today we send this woman, a princesse of Orlais, into the arms of the Maker. Today, we…”

Celene stopped listening and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to hear what Beatrix had to say about her mother. Not Beatrix, and not anyone else, either. What did they all know of Clarisse de Montfort? What did she even know about her? Wasn’t it true that everything she had ever learned about her mother could be boiled down to a list of traits and weaknesses, like a chart used to study opponents in the Game? Her mother had liked white tea and oil paintings. She had been right-handed, tended to cheat at cards, and had secretly been terrified of cockroaches. She hated Rivaini food and had once been to Nevarra City.

But who was she? Did Celene even know? Clarisse had been a rigid, imposing woman, always ready with a scathing repartee and always able to take advantage of an opportunity. Her mother had treated her like every other faceless noble in the sea of masks around her; in fact, she had never once seen her mother without her mask, not as far as she could remember. She had never seen anyone without their mask – no one except her Bria. She suddenly longed for the elf’s touch, to feel her stroke her hair and soothe her troubled heart. But Briala was far away, unable to even enter the cathedral. Her heart would have to wait.

The Divine finished her sermon and drew the Circle of Sacred Flame on her forehead, waiting for the entire cathedral to do the same. She then motioned to the priestesses standing near Clarisse’s pyre to set the bier alight. Her heart suddenly in a panic, Celene looked at her mother’s face, seeing her regal nose and sharp jaw for the last time. She looked like an empress, like everything Celene would never be.

Then, there was a roar of flame, and Clarisse de Montfort was no more.

“Such a lovely ceremony,” Duc Prosper was droning at the reception afterwards. “My dear Clarisse would have been very pleased.”

Celene nodded, not paying him much attention. They were standing in the parlor of Prosper’s city palace, greeting Val Royeaux’s nobility as they came to pay their respects and enjoy the free refreshments. After a long morning in the cathedral, most of the crowd was famished. None of the food looked particularly good to her, however, even though Prosper had found some of her mother’s favorite delicacies. She would have traded all those plates of sturgeon and canapés for a carafe of wine in a heartbeat, however. Unfortunately, alcohol was strictly forbidden at events such as those, and even she knew better than to try and bend the rules.

Luckily, her Bria was back in the room with her, hovering in the background in case she needed anything. There was no way to tell the elf this, but just having her nearby made everything a little bit better. She would need to spend some time alone with her once this all was over.

Duc Prosper gasped suddenly, making her immediately focus in front of her. A wizened old woman wearing a black butterfly’s mask was curtsying before her, her hair covered by an outdated black headdress. “Madame de Mantillon!” Prosper said, bowing before her. “This is a surprise!”

Celene curtsied, surprised as well. The Marquise de Mantillon was famous throughout Orlais, one of the finest players of the Game to have ever existed. Tiny and ancient, she had been the mistress to two emperors and an empress and had had more husbands than half the room combined. She was widely recognized as the Grand Master of the Game, able to create and destroy someone’s reputation in a night. Her protégés had become some of the most important people in the empire; both her mother and Gaspard de Chalons had been under her protection. However, for the past few years, the marquise had kept to her country estates outside the city, taking few visitors and largely withdrawing from public life. Having her make an appearance there was a giant honor.

“ _Votre Altesse_ ,” the old woman sighed, her voice surprisingly smooth for someone of her age. “What a terrible day. I have always hated funerals – such grim, dull affairs. After my fifth husband died, I simply decided I was not going to go to another one. However, when I heard about poor Clarisse…” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “ _Quel dommage_. Your mother was an excellent player of the Game,” she said, grasping Celene’s hand. “To be brought down by a bucking horse – it is too cruel.”

Celene bowed her head, unsure of how to answer. “Thank you for your kind words, madame,” she said.

“Such a lovely girl, Prosper,” Mantillon said, looking at her up and down. “All this black does mar the image somewhat, but I suppose there is nothing to be done about that for now. Tell me, child, where is your father? I come out in public so rarely and it has been so long since I have seen a prince.”

Prosper hesitated. “He is in my study, madame,” he said. “There was a book he was eager to get his hands on.”

The marquise began to tsk. “Men,” she said to Celene. “They have no idea how to grieve. Imagine what your poor mother would say if she saw him hiding away from the guests at her own funeral. But then, that is not my place,” she said quickly as Celene tried to reply. “I should leave you to the others – I see a Launcet girl coming in, and I must get upwind before the smell makes me faint. _Au revoir, ma chère_ – you are as lovely as everyone promised you would be.”

“Well, well,” Duc Prosper said in a low voice as the marquise slid away. “So you have survived your first encounter with Madame de Mantillon.”

“She talks a great deal,” Celene said, frowning slightly.

“It is her greatest defense,” the duc said. “She shocks, she hints, and by the time she has left you have already revealed everything she wished to know. That being said, Cousin, I think I should go and find your father. Remarks from la Mantillon should not be taken lightly.”

She bowed her head at him as he left, secretly glad for a bit of silence. She turned around and glanced at Briala, who nodded discreetly at her, a small smile on her lips. There was nothing she wanted more than to have the elf grab her hand and drag her away from the room, far away from the chattering crowds and her splitting headache. That fantasy was quickly dashed, however, because at that moment someone coughed behind her and said, “Cousin.”

She looked up; Prince Gaspard and his wife, Calienne de Ghislain, had come up to her, both bowing deeply. “A terrible day, Kitten,” Gaspard said, his face bleak behind his mask. “Your mother will be greatly missed.”

“ _Ma chère cousine_ ,” Calienne said, kissing her cheek. She was a short, tan woman with curly brown hair that had been piled up under her black veil. Her Ghislain horse mask looked striking in black; Calienne was known for her fashion sense. She clutched Celene’s hand and looked at her with deep, soulful brown eyes. “I am so heartbroken over your loss. We both feel so guilty over what happened.”

Celene squeezed her hand, smiling warmly. Her mother had despised Madame Calienne, but Celene had always had a soft spot for her. She was a talented player of the Game, of course, but she had always had a kind word for her and tended to seek her out at parties. “Please, you must not think such terrible things,” she said, trying not to think of her mother. “These awful accidents are out of our control.”

“Such a tragedy, though,” Gaspard said gravely. Celene felt a little surprised; it was the kindest the prince had been to her in a long time. “Please, Kitten, if there is anything we can do for you, do not hesitate to ask.”

“ _Merci, mes cousins_ ,” Celene said, dropping into a curtsy. They bowed before her again before leaving for the other side of the room.

“Celene!” Liselotte and Hélène ran up to her, each dressed in full mourning. “There you are!” Hélène said, eyes wide behind her mask. “You poor dear! We have been trying to find you ever since that awful night in the theatre!”

Celene kissed both of them on the cheek, preferring not to think about the night in question. “Thank you for coming, _mes amours_ ,” she said, holding each of their hands. “I cannot say how much it means to me.”

“I can only imagine!” Liselotte said. “What an awful story! Your poor mother! Killed falling off a horse! It has entirely put me off horse riding, I can tell you that.”

“Luckily, you have plenty of other things to ride in the meantime, dear,” Hélène snapped.

Liselotte smiled at her coldly and shoved a plate of food in her face. “Have a cream puff, darling. You can be a real bitch when you are hungry.”

“Ladies, please, a bit of decorum,” Celene said, a little put off by their attitudes. “Pass me a cream puff, though, I am quite famished myself.”

Suddenly, people in the room began to gasp and whisper. The girls looked up to see an older man in a horse mask walk in with a beautiful young woman wearing the simple mask of the common people. Hélène and Liselotte both gasped in horrified glee. “He brought her _here_?” Hélène asked in wonder. “The man has completely lost his mind!”

Celene watched them approach in a mix of curiosity and apprehension. The Duc de Ghislain was the head of one of Orlais’s most powerful families; he was also the father of Calienne de Ghislain. A notorious playboy in his youth, he had recently shocked the entire empire by taking a Rivaini Circle mage as his live-in mistress. Mages were never allowed out of the Circle; how the duc had managed to keep her was a secret that he and the Templars did not seem willing to share.

The duc Celene knew fairly well. His mistress, however, she had never met. She was the first mage Celene had seen, too, and she couldn’t deny that she was fascinated. The woman was truly gorgeous, with clear black skin, high cheekbones, and calm, arrogant eyes. She was dressed better than most of the nobles in the room, wearing flowing black robes that managed to both flutter around her while also hugging her body. The rumors in the city’s salons said that she had used dark magic to seduce the duc; looking like that, though, Celene knew that she didn’t need to.

The duc walked up to her and bowed. “ _Votre Altesse_ ,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly. “We are terribly sorry for your loss.”

Celene curtsied for the thousandth time that day. “Thank you, monsieur,” she said, cocking her head. “Your condolences are warmly met.”

He motioned to his mistress, which almost made Celene flush. She was suddenly aware that all the eyes in the room were on her, eager to see how she would react. “Allow me to introduce my paramour, Madame Vivienne.”

The mage curtsied, perfectly regal. “ _Votre Altesse_ ,” she purred, her voice like velvet. “I am honored to meet you. Please, accept my most heartfelt condolences.”

For a moment, Celene could hardly speak. The duc was a lucky man indeed. However, thinking of her Bria, she quickly found her voice again and nodded. “Delighted to meet you, madame,” she said calmly. “Thank you for your kind words.”

The couple bowed again before retreating into the crowd; Liselotte and Hélène quickly turned back to stare at her in shock. “Celene!” Hélène hissed, looking around. “Was that really wise? The woman is a mage!”

“She came to pay her respects to my mother, Hélène,” Celene said evenly. She followed the woman as she made her way through the crowd. The duc had found Gaspard and Calienne, and while the two men bowed to each other, Calienne barely deigned to nod at Vivienne while she curtsied. So there was animosity between them – interesting.

“These really are excellent cream puffs,” Hélène was saying, stuffing another into her face. “You were right, Lise, I feel so much better.”

Suddenly, there was a flutter of activity from the other side of the parlor. Celene looked around to see Gaspard and Calienne brush past her in a hurry, their mourning clothes rustling against the floors. “Where on earth are they going?” she asked her friends.

A moment later her father and Duc Prosper had appeared at her side. “A scandal,” he seethed, his eyes flashing behind his mask. “A scandal! I’ll not have it!”

Celene was shocked; she had never heard such emotion in his voice. “Father, please,” she murmured, looking around the room. “Someone will hear you.”

He didn’t seem to mind. “He summoned them!” he snapped. “Summoned them, from his own sister-in-law’s funeral! My brother wants Gaspard to see his new plans to expand the Winter Palace!”

Celene let that sink in for a moment, realizing the depth of the slight. If the emperor was so blatantly flaunting his disregard for her mother, that meant that overnight she and her father had deeply fallen out of his graces. “What?” she breathed in horror. “How can that be?”

“It’s an outrage!” Reynaud shouted, attracting several shocked and gleeful glances from the nobles in the room. “I won’t stand for it! He will hear about this if I have to storm into that palace myself!”

“Father, wait!” Celene cried, holding out a hand to him. It was too late – Reynaud had already left, storming out of the parlor in a fury.

“Strange how it works sometimes, is it not?” someone said beside her. She turned her head to see Madame de Mantillon standing next to her, her eyes glinting behind her butterfly’s mask. With a cold nod the marquise shooed Hélène and Liselotte away, who both went to mingle with the other nobility. “Tragedy strikes, and the world seems to take pleasure in adding to our pain.”

 Celene nodded somewhat stiffly, not wanting to tip her hand. “The Maker works in mysterious ways, madame,” she said coolly.

“No one knows that better than myself,” the old woman said. “However, one does have to wonder…”

Celene looked at her carefully. It was never a good idea to put too much confidence in a veteran player of the Game like Mantillon; still, if the old woman took her under her wing, she might learn information that could help her strengthen her position with the emperor. “We all of us can only wonder at the marvels of the Maker,” she said politely.

“And yet his mortal servants are so much more intriguing,” Mantillon said. Celene tilted her head. “I find it odd, that is all,” the old woman continued. “The House of Ghislain is famous for its horses, and your poor mother happened to meet her end while riding with Calienne de Ghislain… Such odd coincidences that our Maker throws in our path.”

Celene had taken a sharp breath. Mantillon’s suggestion was extremely dangerous, and couldn’t be taken lightly. It had to be false, though, didn’t it? Gaspard and Calienne would never risk an all-out confrontation like that. “I think you must be mistaken, madame,” she said measuredly, struggling to keep the emotion out of her voice. “My mother was riding one of her own horses – this was all just a terrible accident.”

The marquise was looking at her craftily. “I am sure you are right, _votre Altesse_ ,” she said, curtsying. “These are just the foolish imaginations of an old woman.” She reached forward and squeezed her hand. “Take care, _ma chère fille_ ,” she said, almost ominously. “The days to come will not be easy.”

It was a variant of what everyone else had been telling her since her mother’s death. Still, the way Mantillon had said it sent shivers down Celene’s spine as she curtsied back to her. “ _Merci,_ madame,” she said. “And thank you for coming.”

The guests began to trickle out after the princes had left. By the early afternoon, the parlor was almost entirely empty. At that point, however, Celene’s mind had long since been elsewhere. La Mantillon’s words had stuck with her; something about them made her feel that something wasn’t right.

Once she was ready to leave, Briala climbed silently into her carriage after her, making sure all her mourning wear was safely inside before closing the door. As they lurched forward, Celene turned to the elf and frowned. “Bria,” she said quietly, letting the noise of the city mask her voice. “Is there any talk among the servants about what happened to my mother?”

Briala took a deep breath, as if she had just been waiting for her to ask. “I have been waiting to tell you,” she said. “I think I might have found something.”

* * *

 

Later that night, Celene sat waiting in the palace library.

The windows outside were dark, the only light coming from the lamp lit on the table she was sitting at. A book lay open in front of her, but her thoughts were far away, lurking in a dark corner of the palace basements where a man was screaming his secrets into the night.

There was a knock at the door, and her father and Duc Prosper walked into the room. The three of them stared at each other silently for a moment, their masks gleaming in the lamplight. “Well?” Celene asked finally, closing the book.

“A full confession,” the duc said. “Gaston placed thistles under your mother’s saddle – that is what made the horse jump.”

Celene’s face betrayed no emotion. “Did he say who paid him?”

“Yes,” Reynaud said, his voice distant. “ _La pute_ Calienne.”

The library fell quiet, each one of them reflecting on the ramifications of that information. In the lamplight nothing seemed real, as if they had slipped into some sort of dream realm. “So what does this mean?” Celene asked finally.

The two men glanced at each other. “It is an open act of aggression,” Duc Prosper said. “It must be met in kind.”

Celene’s heart fluttered. “So,” she said evenly. “Is it war, then?”

“ _Oui, ma fille_ ,” her father said. “It will be war.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are welcome!


	4. Songs in the Garden

Summer rolled in all at once over Val Royeaux, the heat settling in lazily like a lion in the sun. Ladies removed their sleeves and wore powders instead of creams while gentlemen suffered in silence, sweat pooling under their velvet doublets. All throughout the city, servants hovered over their masters, their own faces flushed as they waved jeweled fans and wiped noble sweat from beneath masks and wide-brimmed hats. Shaved ices flavored with lemon and honey were all the rage, and at noon the city fell quiet as Royans took to their beds for a midday sieste.

Outside the capital, the sun baked the highways dry, kicking up clouds of dust that chased travelers away and kept the nobility firmly holed up in their country palaces. Orlais in the summer was unbearable, and there was nothing like heat to grind society to a halt. This, at least, was what the inhabitants of the Palais de Valmont told each other to explain why their salons were so empty and why no invitations were rolling in.

The real reason, of course, had nothing to do with the weather. All of Val Royeaux had felt the shift in favor following Clarisse de Montfort’s funeral, and suddenly Prince Reynaud and his daughter were no longer welcome in the ballrooms of the capital. On the other hand, it was common knowledge that the Prince and Princesse de Chalons spent more time at the Imperial Palace than in their own country chateau. The succession was almost certainly decided, whispers around the city confirmed. Gaspard de Chalons would become the next emperor.

None of that, however, was of any real importance to Briala. Sleeping soundly in Celene’s bed with the princesse in her arms, the elf was enjoying the gentle dreams that had eluded everyone else in the palace for months. The curtains had been drawn over the open windows the night before, letting in a light breeze from the gardens that drifted over the lovers and gently kissed their heads.

Suddenly, there was a light tinkling of chimes, and Briala slowly opened her eyes. It took her a moment to remember where she was, just as it always did when she slept in Celene’s chamber: why the air smelled cleaner, why the sheets were smoother, why she couldn’t hear her father snoring. Then she looked down at the tousle of blond curls nestled on her shoulder and smiled. Celene was always beautiful, but she never looked as peaceful as when she was sleeping. Gently sliding out from under her, Briala reached over to the nightstand and pressed a button on the Dwarven clock, cutting the music short before it could wake the princesse. With everything that had happened over the past few months, it was best to hold onto those moments of peace for as long as possible.

She then sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and silently stretching her arms. The bedchamber somehow seemed to be in an even greater state of disarray than it had been the night before. Dirty plates and wine goblets littered the floor, the tables were covered in books of poetry and philosophy, and the overturned game of chess still had not managed to pick itself up. It was her fault, of course – keeping the room in order was her duty, and she hadn’t done much of anything in the past few days. She was getting indolent, she could feel it in her bones. Yet given the circumstances, who could have really resisted the temptation to lapse into laziness? Trapped in the palace, she and Celene had suddenly found themselves with more time alone together than they had had since they were children, and they were both determined to take as much advantage of that fact as possible. They had spent long nights playing games, acting out plays, and lying in each other’s arms with the taste of sweet wine and summer on their lips. It was the happiest Briala had been in a very long time.

Quiet as a shadow, she stood up from bed and pulled off the silk chemise Celene had given her, replacing it with the scratchy wool of her serving dress. Tying her apron around her waist, she slipped on her wooden mask and picked up her shoes, tiptoeing over to the chamber doors. Before she could sneak out, however, there was a gentle rustling from the bed below her. “Bria,” Celene said weakly, lifting her head up from her pillow. “Don’t go.”

Briala smiled and sat down next to her, kissing her softly on the cheek. “I’m only going to get breakfast,” she said. “We can start our day right after I get back.”

Celene scoffed gently, her eyes still bleary. “Start our day – another day trapped in here, you mean.”

Her smile faltered for a moment. For as happy as Briala had been, the passing days had only made Celene more and more restless. “You’ll be in a better attitude after you eat,” she said finally as she stood up again. “Is there anything you want Arsine to send up in particular?”

“Anything with chocolate,” Celene said, lounging back into the bed. She then looked up at her longingly. “Hurry back, Bria. Please.”

There was nothing she wanted more than to rip off her mask and jump back into the bed with her. Still, duty was calling her elsewhere, and after a deep breath she was able to break away and slip out the door. Sunlight flooded through the windows in the hallway outside Celene’s chamber, making her blink behind her mask. Smoothing back her hair, she began to make her way towards the kitchens, the heels of her shoes clacking gently on the marble floors. It was going to be another beautiful day – one more day of peace.

The kitchens lay underneath the east wing of the palace, hidden out of sight from the rest of the building. As Briala started down the stone steps that led to the basement, a strong scent of roast meat floated through the air around her, carrying with it a wave of heat. The smell made her stomach growl, and she quickened her pace. The sooner they both could eat, the better. The kitchens themselves were as chaotic as ever, full of a sea of servants preparing food, scouring pots, and stoking the palace’s many fireplaces. Arsine, the head cook, was closely inspecting the large roast spinning on the spit in front of her. A tall woman with a long nose, Arsine had consistently been the most harried woman Briala had ever known. “Whoever marinated this bird, I’ll have your head!” she roared, turning back to the terrified kitchen staff. “Dry and tasteless, not at all how Monsieur le Prince likes it! Do you think this is some sort of joke? I’ll whip all your hides, I will!”

Briala knew better than to provoke Arsine when she went into one of her moods. Instead, she hugged the back of the room, sidling up to a weedy elf with a smattering of freckles and nervous eyes. “ _Demat_ , Iwan,” she murmured, keeping her head down. “Who pissed off Arsine today?”

“More like who didn’t, honestly,” Iwan answered. He glanced over at her and blushed. “You look very nice today, Bria.”

She nodded at him, still keeping her eyes down. Iwan had been smitten with her since they were children, and she was always a little embarrassed to be caught around him. “Merci,” she said, keeping her tone polite. “Do you have Mademoiselle’s breakfast ready?”

Still blushing furiously, he nodded and pushed a silver tray laden with fruit, boiled eggs, soft bread rolls, and a pot of steaming hot tea towards her. “You better get out of here now,” he said, glancing back at the fireplace. “Arsine’s gonna blow at any minute.”

Briala smiled and picked up the tray, careful not to drop anything. Turning around to leave, she had almost reached the steps when someone’s voice cut through the chaos of the kitchens. “Briala!” Béjart called from the palace pantries. “Wait for me there!”

She turned around slowly and set down her tray on a nearby counter. The housekeeper made his way stiffly through the throngs in the kitchen, his moustache curled to perfection despite the oppressive heat. Briala bowed her head respectfully while secretly wondering what he could want with her. “Bonjour, Béjart,” she said calmly. “I trust you are well?”

He nodded back to her. “Follow me, please, Briala,” he said. “Monsieur le Prince would like to have a word with you.”

It was all Briala could do to keep from blinking. Prince Reynaud hardly ever interacted with any of the staff, preferring instead to let Béjart supervise the household. If he was reaching out to her now, it had to be for something serious. “Of course,” she said, her mind whirring behind her mask. “Someone will have to send Mademoiselle’s breakfast up to her, though.”

“A kitchen servant will be sent up to her chambers,” he said. “This way.”

They made their way back up the kitchen stairs into the polished hallways of the palace. Already the morning sun was heating the marble floors; both Briala and Béjart had to squint against the beams of light streaming in through the windows. Briala kept close behind the housekeeper, her mind racing as she struggled to maintain her composure. As always, she was filled with dread at the thought that she was finally about to be relieved of her position. _I have to find a way to convince him to let me stay_ , she thought firmly. _I will think of something, I will_.

It soon became clear that Béjart was leading her to the palace’s library, which was no surprise to anyone. For the past few months, the prince had made the room his private headquarters, holding late night war sessions with allies and informants. The emperor’s show of disapproval had hit Reynaud hard, but the prince was determined to shift the tides back into his family’s favor. Despite her general dislike of the Game, Briala couldn’t help but feel a shiver go down her spine as she stood patiently in front of the library doors. The fate of the empire was being decided in that room, and it felt too surreal to think that she had a part to play in it.

Béjart reached forward and knocked on the doors, nodding at the soldiers guarding the entrance. There was a moment’s pause, and then the doors opened, letting the two servants enter. Briala immediately dropped to one knee, her eyes to the floor. Above her, someone coughed lazily. “Rise, Béjart,” Prince Reynaud said. “You as well, Briala.”

Briala rose to her feet, still respectfully keeping her eyes lowered. The prince was not alone; Duc Prosper was seated at a table with him, his goatee dyed a bright yellow. “ _Votre Altesse_ , Monsieur,” Béjart said, bowing his head. “Forgive my intrusion.”

“Do not be silly, Béjart,” the prince said. “It was I who asked you here, after all. Prosper, this is the handmaiden I was speaking to you of.”

The duc sniffed, and despite her dread Briala felt a surge of disgust. “I recognize it from the Grande Royeaux,” he said. “Are you sure it is wise to trust it with such information?”

“We must make allies where we can find them, Prosper,” the prince said. It was all Briala could do to keep from clenching her fists in rage. “Béjart, have you brought the ledger I asked for?”

“ _Bien sûr_ , votre Altesse.” There was a rustling of papers and a soft grunt from the table.

“Merci, Béjart,” Reynaud said. “That will be all.” The housekeeper bowed deeply and left the room. Briala stood there awkwardly, waiting for someone to address her. “Tell me, Briala,” Prince Reynaud said finally. “How long have you been in my daughter’s service?”

She took a deep breath and raised her eyes. Even behind his mask, she could tell that the prince looked tired. The nights of planning and plotting had clearly taken their toll. “Twelve years, _votre Altesse_ ,” she said calmly. Practically her entire life. Had there ever been a moment when her purpose hadn’t been to serve Celene? It was why their relationship was as natural as breathing, why they shared a link that was closer than sisters or even lovers. It was the only part of her life that felt separated from the Game – although, to be fair, the Game had been what had started it. After all, hadn’t her mother pinched the other little elf girl sent to play with the princesse to make her seem cross and surly in front of Madame Clarisse? As usual, the thought that her fate had rested solely on a playdate made her head spin, and she needed to take a measured breath to calm herself.

The prince did not seem to notice, however, preferring instead to flip carefully through the ledger Béjart had given him. “Twelve years,” he said, his voice even. “I know for a fact, then, that you know my daughter better than any other person in the empire. All her strengths…and her weaknesses.”

Briala caught her breath. In any other situation, this would have been a trap. Coming from Celene’s own father, however, she wasn’t sure how to react. “Mademoiselle is a very gifted young woman,” she said quietly.

“Exceptionally so,” Duc Prosper said hotly, as if offended by her guardedness. “Celene is a natural player of the Game – I have never seen anyone with such abundant talents for conversation, wit, intrigue—”

“And drinking,” Reynaud said harshly. The room fell silent as the tips of Briala’s ears flushed. So this was why she had been summoned. The prince gestured back to the ledger, his eyes flashing black in the morning sun. “Over the past month, 57 bottles of claret, port, and table wine have vanished into my daughter’s bedchamber. We might as well lay a mattress out for her in the palace’s wine cellar.”

“She is living through a period of great duress!” Duc Prosper protested. “Many others have turned to far worse outlets.”

“Celene is a Valmont, Prosper,” the prince snapped. “Valmonts do not bend, even where others might break.” The duc fell silent again, and Briala almost smirked with the satisfaction. Reynaud turned back to her, his face cold. “My daughter is weak, Briala,” he said calmly. “In her grief, she has found a crutch that will cripple her. Maker willing, we can crush this habit before it ruins her entire future.”

She paused for a moment. “‘We’, monsieur?”

“Your duties are to protect Mademoiselle at whatever the cost,” Reynaud said, raising an eyebrow. “And now she needs your help more than ever. The task falls to you to ensure that my daughter turns away from the drink.”

A lesser person would have gasped. Tearing Celene away from her wine was akin to ripping the mask off the face of the emperor himself. “You flatter me, monsieur,” she said quietly. “I do not hold the sway you think I do over the princesse.”

“There is no one else who could do it,” the prince said. “Celene does not listen to me – you are the only person in the empire able to bring this about. This is not negotiable,” he said sharply as Briala opened her mouth to respond. “Rest assured, Briala, should my daughter disgrace herself further, you shall bear the punishment.”

A shiver went down Briala’s spine. As a lady’s maid, she was normally spared the rod and the lash that hounded other members of the staff. Still, she knew all too well the horrors that awaited a servant who displeased the Imperial family. “I shall do my best, monsieur,” she said finally, dropping into a deep curtsy.

“ _Très bien_.” Prince Reynaud rang a small bell lying on the table next to him, and the team of servants waiting outside opened the library doors. “That is all, Briala. You may go.” She curtsied again and turned to leave; however, before she could, the prince cleared his throat. “Remember, Briala,” he said coldly. “Do not disappoint me.” She paused for a moment in the doorway and nodded at the two men. Then she left for Celene’s chambers, her heart beating heavily in her chest.

Breakfast had already arrived by the time she walked back into the bedroom. Celene was sitting cross-legged in front of the breakfast tray, her mouth stuffed with bread as she flipped through a pile of pamphlets that had been brought in for her from the city. “There you are!” she cried as Briala walked up to her. “I ate a lot of the bread, but I didn’t touch any of the pears, I know they’re your favorite – have you seen any of the newspapers? Apparently the king of Nevarra is causing trouble again.”

Briala sat down at the edge of the bed, unsure of what to say. Before she could get comfortable, however, Celene looked over absentmindedly and pulled a crystal carafe of red wine out from under her nightstand. “Sorry, could you just get some goblets for us?” she asked, pulling out the carafe’s stopper. “Oh, look, today the new bards are being presented in the city! Sweet Andraste, am I tired of being holed up in here…”

Briala had frozen. This was why it was impossible – what could the prince expect her to do? Refusing her would only make Celene angry, and if she lost her trust… Unable to keep her hands from trembling, she picked up one of the goblets and handed it back to the princesse. “ _Merci_ – oh, are you not having any?” she asked, looking up in surprise. She then started and set her glass back down on the nightstand. “Saint Créateur, Bria, what’s wrong? You look terrible!”

She reached forward and gently slid the mask off of Briala’s face. Celene’s eyes were full of soft concern, and for a moment Briala almost told her everything the prince had said. Then she took a breath and shook her head. “Just a headache,” she lied, gently grabbing her hand. “Nothing too serious.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Celene tutted, stroking her cheek. She reached back for her goblet, and as she drank Briala felt her heart flutter. “It has to be the air in the palace, it’s driving us all crazy.” Her face lit up. “Bria, why don’t we head into the city?” she asked excitedly. “We can go listen to the new bards – it’ll be sure to help clear your head!”

Briala frowned. “But what about the shift in favor?”

“What better way to shift it back?” Celene asked innocently. “Besides, this isn’t about the Game, it’s just a chance to finally leave this place! Come on, you have to admit it would be a little fun?”

She did not, of course. It would be even harder to control Celene out in the city, and any failures would be out in the open for all of Val Royeaux to see. Beyond all that, she had gotten accustomed to spending their days together locked in the room. Yet she knew Celene better than to try to resist. “It sounds lovely,” she said, her mouth filled with dread. “Let’s do it.”

“Great!” Celene leapt up from the bed, sending part of the tray flying. “Oh, _merde_ – whatever, we’ll have someone else clean it up. Come on, let’s get dressed now – I can’t wait to get out of here, I’m going crazy!”

She dragged Briala to her feet with a kiss. Her face forming a mask of its own, the elf followed her to her vanity, her heart plagued with the impossible task that lay before her.

* * *

 The Summer Gardens lay at the heart of Val Royeaux. Nestled against the Imperial Palace, the park was a hidden paradise, thirty acres of flowers, trees, fountains, and statues that looked like something fallen out of the Fade itself. Their shaded promenades and secluded alcoves made the gardens the preferred refuge of the city’s nobility during the hot summer months, and it was one of Celene’s favorite places in the world. The fact that the gardens were also the stage for her escape from the stifling air in the palace only made them all the sweeter.

“Oh, _ma très chère_ , it is so good to see you!” Liselotte cooed as Celene and Briala approached the table she was sitting at. Her friend was dressed in light pink silk and had kept her hair down, a choice that made Celene shiver with heat. “This self-imposed exile has been unbearable for all of us! The city is remarkably dull without you.”

“She was being wise, Lise,” Hélène chided, rising up to kiss Celene’s cheek. “Sometimes it is best to keep a low profile, though it may shock you to hear it.”

“Oh, Léna, Celene has not done anything wrong,” Liselotte said, rolling her eyes as she took her seat. “Why should she be banished just because someone else is dining with the emperor? Would you like some wine, dear?”

“Yes, please,” Celene said, taking the goblet Liselotte’s servant was offering her. Behind her, she felt Briala go stiff. Her eyes twitched over to her in worry as she took her seat – the elf still looked as pale as she had back at the palace. Barely able to keep her eyebrows from furrowing in concern, she took a sip of the chilled wine and turned back to her friends. “I am not trying to cause a scandal, in any case,” she said. “I just wanted a bit of fresh air – is that so wrong?”

“Of course not,” Hélène said, taking her own goblet from the servant. “And it is so good to see you, _ma chérie_ – I am just surprised your father let you out of your estate, that is all.”

Celene smiled coyly. “My father may not exactly know that I am here.”

Hélène gasped. “Celene! That is not like you! It is so reckless – you are starting to act like Lise!”

“About time, too,” Liselotte yawned, eating a strawberry off the pile of fruit in front of her. “The two of you can be so frightfully boring.”

“Boring is the price of a good reputation,” Hélène snapped. “And reputation is all we have.”

“All you and I have, dear,” Liselotte said. “Celene will always be a Valmont.”

Celene smiled politely and started to look around their section of the gardens. Half the city had turned up to hear the bards sing, and all the tables were full of masked faces. As she caught their eyes, the assorted nobles bowed their heads, albeit less deeply than before. Suddenly feeling a little chilly despite the heat, she turned back to her friends and gently cleared her throat. “Enough talk about responsibility and reputation,” she said lightly. “I am here, and what is done is done. Tell more about the bards.”

“Now that is the spirit,” Liselotte said satisfactorily. “And you have not missed much – only a few have been presented so far.”

“ _Merveilleux_ ,” Celene said, taking another sip of wine. “Were they any good?”

“Some of them, yes,” Hélène said. “The one who went first was quite good, in fact – a pretty young thing with bright red hair. Called herself _la Rossignole_.”

Celene laughed. “Someone thinks very highly of herself.”

“No, really, she did sing like a nightingale,” Hélène said. “Of course, whether or not that makes her a good bard is left to be seen.”

Celene nodded and looked up to the makeshift stage that had been built on the grounds. Bards in Orlais were more than just singers and storytellers. In fact, they played a crucial role in the Game. Traveling as they did from palace to palace and court to court, bards collected as many secrets as they did songs, and more than one noble line had been extinguished at the end of one of their blades. Still, in one of the great paradoxes of life in Orlais, aristocratic families clamored to have bards in their households, and the greatest among them could become as wealthy as kings. Though Celene had always been trained to be wary of them, she couldn’t help but be fascinated by their stories and their lifestyle. There were even times when she wished she had become one herself.

A young man had taken the stage now, dressed in light blue silk and wearing a simple mask. Gently strumming his lute, he began to sing a haunting tune about a forbidden love between a lady and her knight. The music lilted through the air like perfume, and Celene had to close her eyes as she felt herself be carried away by the passion in his voice. Secrets and poetry, death and love – the bards were the very souls of Orlais itself.

As the man stopped singing, however, Celene suddenly heard the rustling of skirts behind her. Opening her eyes with a start, she found a striking mask in the shape of a horse staring back at her. “ _Ma chère cousine_ ,” Calienne de Chalons purred, offering her cheek. “How lovely to see you again.”

Celene rose to kiss her, glad that her mask helped hide the hatred she held in her heart. “Calienne,” she said warmly, fighting back the urge to slit her throat. “You look very pretty today.”

“As do you, my darling,” Calienne said, squeezing her hand. “It has been so long! I almost felt I should write Reynaud myself to bring you back to us!”

Celene smiled, imagining how her father would have reacted to such a letter. However, she knew that the key to their plans was maintaining a front of friendship with the Chalons, and so she squeezed her cousin’s hand back with as much tenderness as she could muster. “You remember my friends, of course, _chérie_ ,” she said, gesturing back to the table. “Liselotte, daughter of the Marquis de Chevin, and Hélène, daughter of the Comtesse du Mellifort.”

“ _Un plaisir de vous revoir_ ,” Calienne said, bowing her head. Hélène and Liselotte rose and bowed back to her, their cheeks slightly flushed. Calienne then turned to a man standing silently behind her. “Cousin, allow me to introduce my husband’s uncle, Duc Germain de Chalons, head of the Council of Heralds.”

Duc Germain bowed before the table, his stiffly trimmed beard flashing in the sunlight. “ _Mesdemoiselles_ ,” he said. “Such a pleasure to see so many young flowers in the gardens today.”

The three ladies rose again and curtsied. The Council of Heralds was a panel made up of representatives from seven of Orlais’s most prominent families; Duc Prosper and Liselotte’s father, the Marquis de Chevin, also counted among its members. An ancient institution, the Council was the utmost social authority in Orlais, settling feuds between families and determining noble titles. They were also the arbiters of any questions in the line of succession. As a result, Celene had spent her entire life attempting to curry as much favor with them as possible. “You flatter us, monsieur,” she said with a smile, wishing she had had a bit more wine. “I trust you are well?”

The duc grunted. “As well as can be expected, with my niece spending the family’s fortune on her pleasure palaces in Antiva.”

Calienne sighed. “Gaspard’s sister has a rather lax attitude towards her purse strings, it is true.”

Celene smiled. Her cousin Princesse Florianne was widely acknowledged to be the family dolt. “Well, we long to see her back in the empire,” she said graciously to the duc. “Will you not stay to enjoy the music with us?”

“You are too sweet,” Calienne beamed. Celene turned politely back to her, careful to keep her smile firm. “Sadly, we were just leaving – the emperor has just summoned us back to the palace. Apparently some exceptionally good Rivaini jugglers have arrived at court.”

It was all Celene could do to keep from starting. “Is His Radiance not coming to the performances?” she asked calmly. “I was so hoping to see him today.”

“Oh, you know how attached our uncle is to his quarters,” Calienne laughed, placing a hand on Celene’s arm. “He can be such a recluse, the dear man – but then, when one is the emperor of Orlais, one can do as one chooses, no?” She tittered again and blew Celene a kiss, the curls of her hair rustling gently in a light summer breeze. “ _Au revoir_ , my pet – do enjoy your afternoon.”

Celene watched her disappear behind a wall of bushes and immediately reached for her goblet. As the wine washed her bitterness down her throat, Liselotte sighed dreamily and said, “She is so elegant, is she not? Celene, you must think about inviting us to tea with her one day.”

“My cousin is far too busy for that, Lise,” Celene said coolly, turning her attention back to the stage. Not even her friends could know that her father was creating a plot. “I do wonder who will go next.”

Before the next performance could begin, however, a series of shocked whispers rippled through the crowd. Frowning in confusion, Hélène looked around and gasped at something over Celene’s shoulder. “What is _she_ doing here?” she said. “The Duc de Ghislain is not even with her!”

Celene glanced over to where she was looking at a table in the back. A beautiful young woman wearing a simple commoner’s mask had taken a seat, her shimmering white gown contrasting magnificently with her dark skin. The mage Vivienne had come without her noble protector, a bold move from someone in such a weak position. Celene nursed her wine glass for a moment, reflecting on what that must mean. For all of Duc Bastien’s cavalier attitude, the rest of the de Ghislain family had to be nervous to have such a wildcard in their midst.

She finished her wine suddenly and stood up. The rest of the table started and looked over at her. “I am going to stretch my legs for a moment,” she said clearly, correcting her posture. Behind her, Briala moved to pick up her skirts. “No, no, there is no need,” she said, looking her lover knowingly in the eyes. “I will only be gone a moment.”

“Oh, well, if you are sure,” Hélène said uncomfortably as Celene stepped around her chair. “Do hurry back, then.”

Celene nodded and began making her way through the sea of tables. The nobles rose out of their seats in respect as she passed, all eyes tracing her route through the gardens. Her heart began to pound in her chest as she started to wonder if her idea was really as good as it had first seemed. Before she could turn back, however, it was already too late. “Madame Vivienne,” she said, feeling the horrified stares of Orlais’s brightest burn a hole through her. “How lovely to see you again.”

The mage looked up at her in shock, her eyes both wary and excited. “ _Votre Altesse_ ,” she said, rising from her chair. “You honor me.”

“No, you must not say that,” Celene said, bowing her head. Vivienne really was stunningly beautiful, enough to almost make her falter. “What honor can I give compared to the gifts that you have?”

Vivienne blinked in surprise. “Your Highness has an interest in magic?”

“A family trait, I am afraid,” Celene said. “We Valmonts are not satisfied with conquering this world, we must dominate the other as well.” The whispers around them had almost gotten as loud as the music from the stage; she chose to ignore them and instead focused on Vivienne’s clothing. “Your gown is exquisite,” she said sincerely. The garment was shining in front of her, as if sunlight had been trapped within its fabric. “Is it magic that makes it shimmer so?”

The mage looked down and laughed. “Only the magic of tailoring, mademoiselle,” she said. “I have a particularly good dressmaker in the city – I could give you his name, if you like.”

Vivienne truly was bold to make a suggestion like that to a member of the Imperial family. That was good – Celene needed bold. “I would be delighted to enlist his services,” she said politely. Tilting her head, she quickly switched gears. “It is a pity you arrived when you did,” she said casually. “You missed Duc Bastien’s daughter by a few minutes.”

“Ah.” Vivienne’s back had immediately gone stiff, which was very encouraging. “I see.”

Celene smiled gently, the rush of the Game making her pulse pick up. “Madame Calienne did tell you she would be here, of course?”

The mage smiled politely back at her, her eyes suddenly a bit cooler. “The princesse de Chalons is very busy,” she said smoothly. “It would be presumptuous of me to demand notice from her for every small social engagement.”

“Indeed,” Celene said, always appreciative of a diplomatic answer. She paused for a moment and then smiled. “It is always difficult, when members of one’s entourage find themselves too busy to focus on their familial relationships. I imagine it must weigh heavily on the poor duc’s mind.”

Vivienne stared at her for a moment. “Monsieur de Ghislain is very fond of his family, though he may not show it,” she said finally.

“Which makes it all the more painful,” Celene said. “I do wish I could be of some help.”

“Ah.”

“But you know how tricky families can be,” she continued, sighing theatrically. “I should so hate to put my nose in, only to find I have made things worse. If only I had a bit more information, just to know how I might best be of service to you.”

The two women fell silent for a moment, letting the music in the gardens wash over them. With a flush of satisfaction, Celene could see in Vivienne’s eyes that the mage understood exactly what she was talking about. “You are too kind, mademoiselle,” she said, nodding her head. “I am sure that with time, we will find some sort of solution.”

“Yes,” Celene said. “I am sure we will.”

At that moment, the music stopped, and suddenly the garden was filled with applause. Smiling to herself, Celene nodded her head. “I must return to my table,” she murmured. “It was a pleasure speaking with you, as always, madame.”

“And with you, mademoiselle.” Vivienne rose and curtsied, and with one last nod Celene turned to rejoin her party. All around her, however, nobles were staring back in shock and alarm. She tried to ignore their looks as she took her seat, picking up her goblet and taking a sip. “Do forgive me,” she said. “I feel quite refreshed.”

Her friends, however, were staring back at her in horror. “What on earth possessed you to do that?” Hélène hissed, clutching nervously at her necklace as she stared at the people looking back at them. “Talking to that woman – you are a princesse!”

“A princesse can do as she pleases, _ma chouette_ ,” Celene said, staring up at the stage as she took another sip of wine. “But hush, my dears, the next performance is starting.”

The next singer was a young man wearing bright purple clothes and a feathered mask. Despite that, he was undoubtedly handsome, making Liselotte lean forward and sigh appreciatively. Still, to Celene he looked more like a parrot than anything else. She glanced back to catch Briala’s eye and winked quickly, making the elf blush. Then, the bard bowed before the audience and cleared his throat. “I dedicate this song to a lovely young lady, the pride of her house!” he said. He then strummed his lute and being plucking a quick, catchy tune, perfect for the early afternoon.

The melody was infectious, and suddenly most of the nobility began clapping along to the beat of the song. Her mood vastly improved after her talk with Madame Vivienne, Celene began clapping as well, almost laughing with glee from her victory. She felt light, free – better than she had felt in months.

Then the bard began to sing.

“Hey, now,

Hey, little lion,

Hey, little lion,

What have you there?

Your teeth, now,

Hey, little lion,

Hey, little lion,

Are red with wear.

A drink, now?

Hey, little lion,

Hey, little lion,

Do take care.

Stop, now,

Hey, little lion,

Hey, little lion,

There’s wine to spare.

Oh, pour another one!

Pour another one!

Pour another one, lackey!

My glass is dry and the sun is high,

And I’ll not stop with my drinking.”

The song carried on for another few verses, but Celene had stopped listening. Her joy had vanished as quickly as it had come. The other nobles had stopped clapping; however, one look at the crowd told her it was not from respect or solidarity. Hélène and Liselotte had gotten very still, and it was all she could do to keep from looking at them. _Don’t let them see_ , she thought. _Don’t let them see you know it’s about you_.

As the music ended, a wave of silence fell over the Summer Gardens. Celene sat for a moment, counting her heartbeats until her hands felt steady again. A smile frozen on her face, she rose for the last time and curtsied to her friends. “I am suddenly rather tired, _mes chères_ ,” she said. The two ladies’ faces were still, more like masks than she had ever seen them. “I believe I shall take my leave of you now.”

She turned to go slowly, once again aware of the weight of one hundred pairs of eyes crushing down on her from behind gilded masks. Holding her head high like a lion, she moved through the crowd with Briala at her back, determined to not let anyone see her fall.

* * *

 There had been no tears when they arrived back at the Palais de Valmont, and no anger, either. Briala had expected much worse. Celene, however, had been eerily calm. All she had said, in fact, was that she wanted to be alone for the night. Though the request stung, Briala understood. The song was a terrible insult, one that would likely haunt Celene for a while. Yet again, the Game held its grip over them.

But that was life in the palace, after all. Duty and the Game – the two pillars dictating her life. For now, however, politics would have to wait. The pile of laundry in her arms had to be washed, and if she was lucky she’d be able to—

She froze for a moment at the entrance to the servant’s quarters. Béjart was waiting for her, his face grim. “Good evening, Briala,” he said. “Monsieur le Prince would like to have a word.”


End file.
